ER  BUCK 


m^«$ 


f^rf%" 


^' 


\ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Neil  C.  Needham 


LET  'ER  BUCK 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  WEST 


BY 

CHARLES  WELLINGTON  FURLONG,  F.R.G.S. 

AUTHOR   OP    "the   GATEWAY    TO   THE   BAHARa" 


WITH    FIFTY    ILLUSTRATIONS    T.\KEN   FROM    LIFE 
BY    THE   AUTHOR    AND    OTHERS 


G.  P.  rUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

^be  Iknlcfterbocher  press 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,    1921 

BY 

CHARIiES    WELLINGTON    FURLONG 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


^l^ 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

A  STORY 
OF  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  WEST 


597 


TO  MY  SON 
ROGER  WELLINGTON  FURLONG 

AND 

IN  TRIBUTE 

TO  THE  AMERICAN  PIONEER 

THE  ADVANCE  GUARD  OF  EUROPE'S  LAST  FRONTIER 

AND  TO  THE  COWBOY 

THE  WEST'S  FIRST  BORN 

BOTH  OF  WHOM 

THROUGH  AN  INTREPID  FAITH 

AN  UNHAMPERED  BELIEF 

HIGH  IDEALS  AND  A  DYNAMIC  GOGETTEDNESS 

EPITOMIZED  THE  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA 

AND 
CEMENTED  THE  GREAT  NORTHWEST 
INTO  OUR  NATIONAL  BODY  POLITIC 


877905 


PUTTING  ON  THE  BRAND 

If  I  had  never  seen  a  Umatilla  "fuzz-tail,"  didn't 
know  what  "bulldogging"  meant,  and  was  altogether 
a  stranger  to  the  Pacific  Northwest — if,  I  say,  such 
misfortunes  were  mine,  yet  would  I  revel  in  Let  'Er 
Buck,  because  of  the  downright  dramatic  interest  of 
the  book  and  its  extraordinary  illustrations. 

But  as  I  happen  to  have  had  the  good  fortune  to 
reside  in  Oregon  for  some  years,  and  as  I  know  at 
first-hand  somewhat  of  the  range  country  and  its 
people.  Let  'Er  Buck  has  found  an  especially  ap- 
preciative publisher.  It  is  truly  a  breath  of  the  real 
West  of  yesterday  and  today,  alluring  for  us  in  the 
East,  inspiring,  I  am  sure,  to  every  reader  to  whom 
the  West  means  home. 

Charles  Wellington  Furlong  is  an  ideal  author  for 
such  an  epic  of  the  out-of-doors.  He  knows.  He  has 
lived  the  life  of  which  he  writes.  He  has  worked 
and  played  in  the  cattle  country;  its  people  are 
his  friends  and  its  ways  are  his.  He  understands  the 
Round-Up  intimately,  not  only  as  observer  but  as 
participant.  It  violates  no  secret  to  state  that  the  buck- 
aroo  pictured  riding  Sharkey,  the  bull  (page  176),  is 
Furlong  himself;  he  broke  the  world's  record — and 
his  wrist ! 


PUTTING  ON  THE  BRAND 

What  an  adventuresome,  varied  life  our  author  has 
led!  Explorer,  painter,  writer,  university  professor, 
lecturer,  soldier,  publicist!  He  has  painted  in  Paris 
and  been  a  Professor  at  Cornell.  He  has  written  half 
a  dozen  successful  books  and  countless  magazine  arti- 
cles. He  has  slept  in  the  guanaco  skin  tents  of  the 
primitive  Patagonians,  and  has  crossed  the  Atlantic 
in  a  twenty-two  ton  schooner.  He  has  lectured  on  art 
in  Boston  and  fought  desert  thieves  in  the  Sahara.  He 
has  ridden  with  the  wild  tribesmen  of  Morocco  and 
cow-punched  with  the  Vaqueros  of  the  Venezuelan 
llanos.  .  .  .  And  naturally  he  loves  the  ways  of  the  Old 
West,  so  gloriously  repictured,  in  action  and  spirit, 
each  year  at  the  Pendleton  Round-Up — and  loves  the 
Round-Up  itself,  whose  story  as  here  recorded  be- 
comes a  lasting  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  well-won 
West. 

Last  autumn  Furlong  and  I  were  automobiling  near 
New  York  City.  We  talked  of  Oregon,  because  we 
both  love  its  mountains,  forests,  and  far-flung  grain 
and  cattle  lands. 

"The  Round-Up's  a  book  in  itself,"  said  I,  remi- 
niscing of  Pendleton. 

"Of  course,"  he  replied.  "And  I  am  going  to  write 
it.    You  publish  it." 

He  did. 

We  did. 

There  is  a  very  large  measure  of  personal  satisfac- 
tion in  being  associated  with  this  book,  and  an  equal 
pleasure  in  recalling  the  characteristically  enthusiastic 
support  which  the  project  has  received  from  Pendleton 
and  her  people.  .  .  .  And  it  is  a  further  satisfaction  to 
realize  that  Let  'Er  Buck  undoubtedly  will  cause 
many  Eastern  readers  to  go  West  and  see  for  them- 


PUTTING  ON  THE  BRAND 

selves  this  wonderful  Round-Up  spectacle — which  is 
only  another  way  of  predicting  their  ultimate  gratitude 
to  author  and  publisher ! 

G.  P.  P. 

New  York,  June,  1921. 


IX 


THE  FIRST  THROW  OF  THE  ROPE 
AND  WHY 

"Sh! — She's  asleep!"  The  tallest,  roughest  appear- 
ing of  five  big,  hard-boiled  looking  men  raised  a  quiet 
but  warning  finger  to  a  newcomer  and  pointed  farther 
down  the  car.  The  train  was  a  little  freight  with  a 
passenger  annex  that  runs  over  the  dust-swept  plains 
and  through  some  little  jerkwater  towns  of  central 
Washington. 

Pretty  Miss  Virginia  had  heard  the  call  of  the  West 
and  came.  Fatigued  by  a  year  of  teaching  and  repres- 
sion in  a  tight,  little  sectarian  college  she  was  now 
speeding  toward  freedom  and  the  great  outdoors  to  a 
Western  uncle's  ranch. 

The  newcomer  now  made  the  seventh  passenger — 
six  were  men — she  was  the  seventh.  Her  eyes  had 
wearied  of  the  miles  of  fascinating,  desert-looking 
country  with  no  signs  of  life,  except  little,  timid,  crawl- 
ing things  that  scurried  or  slunk  along  through  the 
sage  brush.  But  the  one  thing  she  had  desired  the  last 
month  of  her  busy  year  more  than  anything  was  sleep 
— so  she  curled  up  and — slept. 

When  she  awoke,  the  well-worn  coat  of  one  of  the 
five  was  spread  over  her,  another  rolled  up,  had  been 
tucked  gently  under  her  head.  No  one  was  talking  or 
making  the  slightest  sound.     At  noon  the  conductor 


FIRST  THROW  OF  THE  ROPE 

came,  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  offer  her  a  regular  lunch, 
but  said  he  would  stop  the  train  somewhere  and  get  her 
a  cup  of  tea.  When  they  did  stop,  each  man  debouched 
from  the  freight  and  brought  her  something. 

It  was  warm  and  dusty,  the  poor,  rickety  little  car 
had  seemed  impossible  but  Miss  Virginia  obtained  a 
new  perspective  of  the  real  spirit  of  the  West.  The 
West,  that  in  many  places  still  feels  life  is  too  big  to 
give  change  for  a  nickel — (all  coppers  taken  in  the 
saloon  at  Ennis  were  flipped  over  the  mirror  top  behind 
the  bar),  the  West,  where  in  some  places  it  is  still  more 
polite  to  ask  a  man  what  he  calls  himself  than  what 
his  name  is,  the  West  where  it  matters  little  what  a 
man's  folks  were  or  to  some  extent  even  what  he's  been 
himself,  it's  what  he  is.  Miss  Virginia  had  pryed  open 
the  heart  of  the  West — and  this  happened  today,  since 
the  first  of  this  book  went  to  press.  The  reason  the 
book  has  gone  to  press  is  threefold. 

To  help  to  preserve  one  of  the  most  important  pages 
of  American  history — the  Winning  of  the  West  and 
the  part  the  pioneer  and  the  American  cowboy  have 
played  in  it. 

To  show  the  significance  of  the  cowboy  contests 
which  are  fast  disappearing,  and  particularly  of  that 
passion  play  of  the  West,  The  Round-Up  held  at  Pen- 
dleton, in  Eastern  Oregon  about  which  country  so 
much  of  the  history  of  the  Northwest  is  wrapped. 

To  help  to  perpetuate  and  enlarge  the  ennobling  and 
just  Spirit  of  America  through  the  true  and  positive 
Spirit  of  the  West,  that  in  so  doing,  we  may  be  ener- 
gized to  a  greater  national  consciousness. 

Our  Atlantic  seaboard  is  established,  our  western 
still  in  the  making.  Our  trade  Star  of  Empire  is  still 
West,  the  Far  East.     Puget  Sound  and  its  contiguous 


FIRST  THROW  OF  THE  ROPE 

ports  will  some  day  be  the  great  western  mouth  of 
America,  one  of  the  greatest  trade  and  transit  em- 
poriums of  the  World,  a  healthy  competitor  of,  and 
worthy  cooperator  with,  New  York. 

America's  greatest  trade  success  lies  in  the  Pacific 
and  beyond,  likewise  its  greatest  problem,  its  greatest 
danger.  America  must  know  its  own  problems,  get 
acquainted  with  itself,  see  itself,  know  itself  first, 
adequately  to  protect  and  find  itself.  So  too,  America 
must  also  follow  and  understand  the  movements  of  the 
world  tides,  not  just  its  own  political  eddies. 

The  Great  Epic  Drama  of  the  West,  the  Round-Up, 
is  but  an  atomic  episode  in  the  modern,  forward-mov- 
ing West  of  today,  but  a  drop  of  the  red  blood  that 
surges  through  the  great  throbbing  heart  of  America, 
but  it  helps  us  to  understand  its  pulsing.  If  there  was 
never  another  rounding-up  of  the  range  clans  in  Pendle- 
ton, its  Pageant  has  already  been  a  rich  contribution 
to  the  Spirit  of  America. 

There  is  something  in  every  healthy  nature  that  re- 
sponds to  the  spectacular  and  dangerous.  When  the 
restraints  of  some  artificialities  of  society  are  removed, 
certain  deep  powerful,  oft-times  long-buried  instincts, 
irresistible  and  unfathomable,  assert  themselves.  It 
were  better  for  the  Nation  if  the  blase,  effete,  lily-liv- 
ered youths,  which  the  complexities  and  hectic  move- 
ment of  our  modern  life  tends  to  develop,  learned 
through  honorable  physical  contest  the  satisfaction  of 
a  well-balanced  body  and  character,  the  power  of 
self-control,  the  constructive  force  of  positiveness  and 
that  joy  of  spiritual  uplift  through  a  frank  and  sym- 
pathetic contact  with  Nature  and  a  certain  healthy  re- 
version to  type. 

In  this  book  I  have  sought  to  incorporate  enough  of 


FIRST  THROW  OF  THE  ROPE 

the  early  history  of  Oregon  and  the  West  to  enable 
me  to  paint  with  a  broad  brush  in  the  simple,  primary 
colors  of  fact,  a  background  which  will  serve  as  an 
adequate  stage-setting  for  the  actors  and  episodes  of 
Pendleton's  great  annual  epic. 

I  have  sought  to  portray  the  big,  free  spirit  and  sig- 
nificance of  range  life  through  type  similes,  simple  in- 
cident and  outstanding  feature  and  thus  record  a  verse 
or  two  of  the  swan  song  of  the  cowboy  before  his 
range  cries  die  away. 

This  book  represents  the  results  of  some  seventeen 
years  of  close  personal  study  of  and  participation  in 
the  life  of  the  range  in  our  West  and  in  the  countries 
of  South  America  and  also  in  four  annual  Round-Ups 
at  Pendleton. 

But  within  these  pages,  one  can  but  touch  upon  a  few 
of  the  many  stirring  performances  and  present  only 
a  small  portion  of  that  lore  and  custom  linked  with 
them.  On  each  of  the  three  days  of  the  Round-Up, 
a  lifetime  on  the  frontier  is  lived  in  an  afternoon.  The 
picture  drawn  here  is  a  composite  one,  extending  over 
more  than  a  decade  of  round-ups.  Contestants  have 
come  and  gone  and  some  have  ridden  out  into  the 
Farther  West.  But  I  have  tried  to  make  the  picture  a 
true  one,  though  composed  of  thumb-nail  sketches, 
snapshots  caught  as  it  were,  through  the  open  noose  of 
a  flying  lass  rope. 

As  the  cowboys  are  being  run  off  the  ranges  and 
cowhands  are  yearly  less  in  demand  many  are  turning 
the  art  of  their  calling  to  more  profitable  use,  by 
"ridin'  the  shows,"  that  is,  competing  for  prize  money 
in  the  rodeos —  little  round-up  shows  held  all  over  the 
West — in  which  some  make  several  times  their  forty 
bucks  and  found.     Still  others,  mostly  star  perform- 


FIRST  THROW  OF  THE  ROPE 

ers  have  gone  from  rodeo  to  movies  and  almost  any 
night  you  can  see  Hoot  Gibson,  Art  Acord,  Jane  Ber- 
noudy,  Walter  Sterling,  Ben  Corbett  and  others  rep- 
licating on  the  film  some  real  romance  of  their 
adventurous  lives. 

But  of  those  big-hearted,  open-handed,  courageous 
souls  in  the  Great  Game,  none  have  followed  the 
romance  of  life  or  death,  none  played  more  headily, 
yet  openly  with  fate,  than  the  cowboy  of  yesterday  and 
today.  Of  those  buckaroos  and  Round-Up  officials 
who  have  graced  the  great  Pendleton  arena,  there  are 
some  familiar  figures  who  have  ridden  out  and  beyond 
across  the  Great  Sunset — Bert  Kelley,  Mark  Moor- 
house,  Harry  Gray,  Otto  Kline,  Floyd  Irwin,  Del  Blan- 
cett.  Newt  Burgess,  George  Peringer,  Til  Taylor, 
Earl  Pruitt,  H.  C.  Caplinger,  Homer  Wilson,  Winna- 
mucca  Jack  and  others.  You  see  their  silhouettes  in 
the  passing,  against  its  golden  afterglow. 

Some  errors  are  naturally  unavoidable,  one  cannot 
always  rope  a  "critter"  right,  but  if  anyone  picks  up 
any  "strays"  both  publisher  and  author  will  appreciate 
it  if  you'll  rope  'em  and  lead  'em  in  and  we'll  put  on  the 
right  brand  if  we  ever  make  a  second  throw  with  this 
rope.  But  I'll  offer  no  apology  to  the  West  for  having 
slipped  over  a  highbrow  expression  or  two — or  to  the 
East  for  having  dropped  into  the  vernacular  of  the 
cowboy — because  when  you're  through  jogging  along 
chapps  to  chapps,  in  this  story,  you'll  both  know  the 
other  feller  better. 

C.  W.  F. 


SLAPS  ON  THE  BACK  TO  THOSE 
WHO  HELPED 

A  SMALL  portion  of  the  material  in  this  book  has  ap- 
peared in  the  form  of  magazine  articles  in  Harper's 
Magazine  and  World's  Work. 

My  sincere  acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  follow- 
ing:— Mr.  Robert  Swan  of  New  York  and  Canton, 
Mass.,  former  ranch  owner,  for  stimulating  my  inter- 
est in  the  West  through  his  own  love  of  God's  country 
and  for  bringing  me  into  first  direct  contact  with  the 
cowboy  and  range  on  the  old  Nine  Quarter  Circle  in 
the  Taylor  Fork  country  of  Montana :  the  late  William 
F.  Cody  (Buffalo  Bill),  who  through  his  striking  per- 
sonality and  healthy  romance  embodied  in  his  Wild 
West  Show  concept,  first  set  my  boyhood  imagination 
westward  working. 

To  the  following  Pendletonians :  Mr.  James  H. 
Sturgis,  of  Sturgis  and  Storie,  rancher  and  business 
man  and  former  Round-Up  Livestock  Director,  whose 
close  friendship  and  generous  assistance,  not  only 
helped  inspire  my  initial  interest  in  this  book,  but  aided 
in  the  solution  of  some  of  the  practical  problems  con- 
nected with  it;  the  late  Sheriff  Tillman  D.  Taylor, 
eight  years  President  of  the  Round-Up;  the  late  Mark 
Moorhouse,  first  Arena  Director;  Samuel  R.  Thomp- 


SLAPS  ON  THE  BACK 

son,  Rancher  and  Livestock  Director  and  Lawrence  G. 
Frazier  of  L.  G.  Frazier's  Bookstore  and  Grounds 
Director  for  kind  personal  assistance  in  facilitating  my 
work  with  the  Round-Up.  To  J.  W.  Earl,  Non-Com- 
petitive Events,  R.  E.  Chloupek,  Treasurer,  George  C. 
Baer,  Business  Manager,  D.  S.  Tatom,  Accommoda- 
tions. James  Estes,  Parade  Director;  Thomas  Boylen, 
Rancher  and  Judge  and  other  members  and  ex-mem- 
bers of  the  Round-Up  Directorate  for  the  granting  of 
privileges  in  the  arena. 

To  Mr.  Roy  T.  Bishop  of  the  Pendleton  Woolen 
Mills,  former  Director  of  Indians  and  Mr.  Chauncey 
Bishop  of  the  same  firm  and  present  Director  of  In- 
dians for  privileges  extended  and  kind  assistance  in  the 
Indian  section  of  the  Round-Up;  to  Mr.  Glenn  Bushee, 
Deputy  Sheriff  and  Indian  authority  for  much  personal 
assistance  in  gathering  Indian  data;  Captain  Lee 
Caldwell,  formerly  commanding  Troop  D,  3rd  Oregon 
Cavalry — rancher  and  buckaroo,  for  detailed  facts  on 
rough-riding  technique;  Major  Lee  Moorhouse,  lead- 
ing Oregon  authority  on  the  Northwest  and  the  Indian, 
for  generously  placing  his  invaluable  illustrative  and 
literary  collections  at  my  disposal  and  aiding  in  veri- 
fying certain  moot  questions. 

To  Mr.  Charles  H.  Marsh,  Attorney-at-law  and 
Round-Up  Secretary  for  invaluable  personal  assistance 
over  a  period  of  nine  years  and  particularly  for  aid  in 
compilation  of  the  Round-Up  tables  at  the  back  of  this 
book :  to  Mr.  Henry  W.  Collins,  President  of  the  Col- 
lins Flour  Mills  and  President  of  the  Round-Up  for 
helpful  personal  and  executive  action  in  furthering  the 
writing  and  publication  of  this  book :  To  Mr.  J.  Roy 
Raley,  Attorney  at  law,  of  Raley  and  Steiwer,  first 
President  of  the  Round-Up  and  Director  of  Happy 


SLAPS  ON  THE  BACK 

Canyon  for  specific  and  valuable  information :  to  Mr. 
Herbert  Thompson,  rancher  and  Round-Up  Assistant 
Livestock  Director  for  many  personal  favors  in  secur- 
ing material,  both  on  ranch  and  in  arena. 

To  Mr.  E.  B.  Aldrich,  Journalist  and  Editor  of  The 
East  Oregonian  for  exceptionally  kind  and  valuable 
assistance  since  1913,  both  through  personal  courtesies 
and  the  use  of  the  valuable  files  of  the  East  Oregonian; 
Mr.  Harry  Kuck,  Journalist  and  Editor  of  The  Pendle- 
ton Tribune  for  numerous  courtesies  extended;  Mr. 
Samuel  Jackson,  Journalist  and  Editor  of  The  Ore- 
gon Journal  for  courtesies;  Mr.  Merle  Chessman, 
Journalist  and  writer  and  authority  on  the  Round-Up 
for  information  placed  at  my  disposal;  Mr.  Ernest  L, 
Crockatt,  Secretary  of  the  Eastern  Oregon  Auto  Club, 
for  published  material  generously  placed  at  my  disposal 
from  which  I  have  drawn  freely  in  Chapter  Two; 
Dr.  Cyrus  C.  Sturgis,  of  Peter  Bent  Brigham  Hos- 
pital, Boston,  and  formerly  of  Pendleton,  for  many 
kindnesses;  Elmer  Storie,  of  Sturgis  and  Storie, 
Walla  Walla,  for  generous  application  of  the  balm  of 
both  horse  liniment  and  friendship  when  sorely 
needed;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.  Gordon  Patterson,  of  Bos- 
ton, and  the  many  friends  whose  kindly  interest  and 
helpfulness  furthered  the  successful  completion  of 
this  work. 

To  Edwin  P.  Marshall,  rancher  and  authority  on 
range  life,  for  kindly  rendering  exceptionally  useful 
information;  Mr.  David  Horn,  early  settler  and 
pioneer  stage  driver  for  information  in  regard  to  stage- 
coaching  and  early  Oregon  conditions;  Mr.  Fay  S. 
LeGrow  of  Athena,  rancher  and  banker,  for  field  in- 
formation and  other  assistance;  Mr.  George  and  Allen 
Drumheller   for  field  and  technical  information  and 


SLAPS  ON  THE  BACK 

courtesies;  Miss  E.  J.  Frazier  of  the  L.  G.  Frazier 
Book  Store,  Pendleton;  the  late  Mr.  H.  C.  Caplinger 
of  Athena,  old  time  pioneer,  for  glimpses  of  the  old 
West;  Mr.  William  Switzler  of  Umatilla,  rancher, 
and  Mr.  Ben  Hutchinson  of  Crab  Creek,  Washington, 
rancher  and  old  time  buckaroo,  for  numerous  eye 
openers. 

To  Mr.  Fred  Earl  of  the  firm  of  The  Peoples  Ware- 
house; Mr.  Charles  and  Willard  Bond  of  Bond  Bros, 
and  Mr.  J.  K.  Thompson  of  the  Thompson  Drug  Co., 
for  information  and  loyal  support;  Mr.  James  S.  Johns 
of  the  Hartman  Abstract  Co.,  Pendleton,  for  courte- 
sies; to  the  People  of  Pendleton  for  kindly  coopera- 
tion and  many  courtesies. 

Special  acknowledgment  and  thanks  is  hereby  ex- 
pressed to  Mr.  Walter  S.  Bowman,  Major  Lee  Moor- 
house,  Round-Up  Association,  Mr.  Marcell,  Electric 
Studio,  Doubleday,  Dr.  Tameisie  and  Mr.  G.  Ward, 
for  the  use  of  the  splendid  photographs  as  credited 
under  the  reproductions  respectively. 

To  the  Tantlingers  (Mr.  and  Mrs.)  of  Lawton,  Ok- 
lahoma, formerly  in  charge  of  the  cowboy  and  Indian 
contingent.  Miller  Bros.  101  Ranch  show  for  many 
useful  facts;  Mrs.  Earl  G.  Reed,  nee  Jane  Bernoudy  of 
Hollywood,  California;  Cuba  Crutchfield  and  Chester 
Byers  for  many  points  in  roping;  to  Bertha  Blancett  for 
illustrations  and  points  of  riding  technique ;  to  the  late 
Dell  Blancett  of  the  Canadian  Cavalry  and  buckaroo 
and  to  all  my  friends  and  pals  among  the  cowboys  who 
have  given  me  points  and  initiated  me  into  the  fast-dis- 
appearing vernacular,  colloquialisms  and  ways  of  the 
Umatilla  Reservation,  the  Black  feet  Reservation  and 
Crow  Agency,  Montana,  and  elsewhere  who  have  re- 
vealed to  me  some  of  the  secrets  of  their  people.   And 


SLAPS  ON  THE  BACK 

not  least,  though  last,  to  Maj.  George  Palmer  Putnam, 
of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  publisher  and  writer,  be- 
cause of  his  faith  in  the  idea  of  the  book  and  its  author, 
for  his  unusual  personal  encouragement  and  practical 
cooperation  and  particularly  for  his  unpublishery,  un- 
arm-chairy  imagination,  all  of  which  is  so  essential  to 
book  success. 


Let  'er  Buck! 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

BEING  AN  ACCOUNT  OF 
THE  FRONTIERS  OF  YESTERDAY  AND  TODAY 

We  sat  on  the  top  rail  of  a  corral  fence,  my  pal  and 
I.  We  had  ridden  nearly  one  hundred  miles  over  the 
Montana  Rockies,  from  Nine  Quarter  Circle  Ranch 
in  the  Taylor  Fork  country,  loping  into  the  little  town 
of  Ennis  in  the  Madison  Valley  to  witness  a  local  buck- 
ing contest,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen. 

The  top  rail  was  the  grandstand,  the  gaps  between 
the  logs  were  the  bleachers,  well  crowded  by  the  people 
of  the  little  hamlet  and  the  outfits  that  had  ridden  in, 
Montana  Whitey  was  riding  old  Glass  Eye,  a  brute  of 
a  bucker,  who,  not  satisfied  with  trying  to  scrape  ofif 
his  rider  against  the  corral  fence,  nipped  viciously  at 
the  quickly-hauled-up  legs  of  the  "grandstand"  specta- 
tors. Crash!  A  tenderfoot  fell  backwards  thru  an 
automobile  top,  landing  squarely,  if  unexpectedly,  in 
the  lap  of  a  lady. 

"Who's  the  tall,  goodlooking  cowboy,  with  the  red 
feather  dangling  Indian  fashion  from  his  Stetson? 
The  one  in  charge  of  the  stakes,"  I  asked  Judge  Call- 
oway of  Virginia  City,  who  on  the  morrow  was  hold- 
ing court  in  Ennis,  but  who  now  helped  me  hold  down 
the  top  rail. 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

"What!     Don't  you  know  V ?     He's  not  a 

bad  sort,  but  I  had  to  send  him  up  last  spring  for  two 
years — horse  rusthng." 

"Speaks  well  for  him  that  he  is  out  so  soon." 

"Out?  He's  not  out.  You  see,  he's  one  of  the  best 
riders  in  the  valley  and  the  people  hereabouts  wouldn't 

stand  for  keeping  V in  jail  while  this  bucking 

contest  is  on.    But  he  goes  back  tonight." 

This  episode  not  only  prefaces  this  book  and  my 
own  experiences  in  the  life  and  sports  of  the  old  West, 
but  epitomizes  those  great  human  virtues  with  which 
the  West  is  replete — courage,  daring,  belief  in  work, 
love  of  play,  optimism,  and  above  all,  that  balance- 
wheel  of  life,  humor;  virtues  which  were  not  only  nec- 
essary to  the  winning  of  the  West,  but  were  those  com- 
posite constituents  which  enabled  the  early  pioneer  to 
cement  later  the  great  Northwest  into  our  national 
body  politic. 

Five  nations  for  two  centuries,  seeking  the  Oregon 
country,  tried  to  discover  the  great  rumored  "River  of 
the  West."  Then  the  New  England  skipper.  Captain 
Robert  Gray  of  Boston,  first  cargoed  by  Boston  mer- 
chants and  later  sent  by  General  Washington,  let  fall 
the  anchors  of  his  two  vessels  the  Columbia  and  Lady 
IP^ashington  in  the  long  sought  River  of  the  West, 
later  christened  after  the  name  of  his  flagship — and 
Oregon  was  found.  This  great  River  of  the  West  as 
expressed  in  the  poem  picture  of  Bryant's  imagina- 
tion is  supposed  to  be  the  waterway  mentioned  in 
Thanatopsis  in  the  line  "where  rolls  the  Oregon." 

A  scant  three  hundred  years  ago,  the  Atlantic  sea- 
board was  the  frontier  of  Europe.  But  that  eternal 
urge,  that  migratory  instinct — wanderlust — found 
from  man  to  butterflies,  saw  the  eastern  settler  push 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

over  the  Appalachian  passes,  onward  to  the  Mississippi 
and  Missouri,  and  the  frontier  of  Europe  was 
advanced. 

The  search  for  the  Northwest  Passage  had  of  neces- 
sity brought  those  early  explorers  in  close  contact  with 
the  Pacific  coast,  but  the  immense  supply  of  skins  to 
be  purchased  from  the  Amerinds^  sidetracked  the  navi- 
gators. It  was  no  wonder  that  when  one  could  pur- 
chase two  hundred  otter  skins  for  a  chisel,  as  did 
Captain  Gray,  that  their  passion  was  shifted  from 
"passage  to  peltries."  Gray  later  traded  in  China  his 
cargo  of  skins  for  tea,  and  returned  to  Boston  around 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  "first  sailor  under  the 
American  flag  to  circumnavigate  the  globe." 

About  fifteen  years  later,  those  courageous  young 
explorers,  Lewis  and  Clark,  starting  from  St.  Louis 
and  following  the  Missouri  River,  explored  portions 
of  the  Northwest  clear  to  the  Pacific.  Despite  the  fact 
that  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  pushing  on  to 
the  Columbia  and  south  of  it,  had  thrown  out  a  west- 
ern flank  of  conquest,  Lewis  and  Clark's  exploration 
coupled  with  Gray's  discovery  established  for  the 
United  States  a  definite  and  recorded  claim  upon  the 
Oregon  country,  which  at  that  time  included  the  great- 
er portion  of  the  Northwest. 

Americans  pushed  their  claims  and  trade  still  harder 
when  John  Jacob  Astor  of  New  York,  the  founder  of 
the  great  line  of  merchant  princes,  outfitted  his  ships 

*The  term  Amerind  derived  by  combining  syllables  of  the 
words  American  Indian  is  used  to  signify  an  aboriginal  inhab- 
itant of  North  or  South  America  in  order  to  distinguish  be- 
tween him  and  the  Indian,  the  autochthonous  inhabitant  of  In- 
dia. The  term  Amerind  was  first  used  by  Major  Powell  of  the 
Smithsonian    Institution,    Washington,  D.  C. 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

in  1810  to  sail  around  the  Horn  and  established  a  trad- 
ing post  at  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia  River — today 
the  flourishing  town  of  Astoria,  Oregon.  He  also  sent 
a  body  of  men  overland  from  St.  Louis  along  what 
later  became  the  great  historic  Oregon  Trail  to  the 
same  point.  His  plan  was  to  attempt  to  wrest  the  valu- 
able fur  trade  from  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  on  the 
American  side  and  capture  it  for  the  United  States. 
This  was  another  asset  toward  the  permanent  estab- 
lishment of  our  western  flank. 

Even  before  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  the  fur 
trade  of  the  Mississippi  had  been  exhausted.  Thru 
the  fertile,  fluvial  soil  of  this  Father  of  Waters  and 
the  Missouri,  the  agricultural  market  became  so  con- 
gested that  "Mississippi  at  times  found  even  bacon  a 
hot  and  cheap  fuel."  So  even  for  these  central  set- 
tlers access  to  the  sea  became  a  necessity. 

Our  expansion  naturally  followed  the  direction  of 
our  greatest  length — westward.  Thus  settlement  of 
the  middle  West  seemed  but  a  halt,  a  pitching  of  tents 
overnight,  in  the  movement,  and  again  the  frontier  of 
Europe  moved  west. 

The  starting  point  of  this  immigration  and  of  the 
principal  trails  was  Independence,  Missouri.  There 
the  Missouri  River  bent  northwesterly,  necessitating 
the  beginning  of  the  prairie  trails.  These  naturally  took 
the  paths  of  least  resistance,  the  wake  of  the  redman's 
course.  Southwesterly  the  Santa  Fe  trail  scorched  its 
way  through  rock,  sand,  cactus,  mesquite  and  chapar- 
ral, conciding  eventually  with  the  Gila  trail  which 
ended  in  view  of  the  Bay  of  San  Diego  and  lovely 
Point  Loma;  while  the  Spanish  trail  diverged  a  little 
northward  to  the  City  of  the  Angels. 

But  it  was  The  Great  Trail,  later  known  as  The  Ore- 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

gon  Trail,  which  bore  northwesterly,  through  sage- 
brush and  bunchgrass,  traversing  desert,  prairie,  forest 
and  mountain,  mainly  through  Oregon  to  the  Pacific. 
By  1840  this  trail  was  established,  and  from  that  time 
on  it  became  a  much  traveled  route  for  that  restless 
population  which  began  its  migrations  in  1843, 

The  first  wagon  train  £>f  one  hundred  and  ten  ox- 
drawn,  white  covered  prairie  schooners  crossed  the 
Missouri  River  with  the  first  gallant  one  thousand  Ore- 
gon pioneers  and  entered  the  treacherous  wilderness 
under  the  leadership  of  Dr.  Marcus  Whitman.  New 
Englanders  formed  no  small  portion  of  the  contingent, 
some  having  trekked  clear  from  the  rock-bound  coast 
of  Maine  and  Massachusetts. 

Through  gulch  and  gully,  rain  and  snow,  mud  and 
bog,  up  steep  grades  and  down  sharp  defiles  through 
hostile  Indian  tribes  and  attacked  by  terrible  cholera; 
through  trackless  deserts  and  down  the  perilously  roar- 
ing, raging  rivers;  over  no  well-defined  trails  they 
passed,  eventually  to  endure  dreariness  beyond  concep- 
tion through  isolation  and  the  many  hardships  in  set- 
tlement, "to  which  the  history  of  mankind  has  few 
parallels." 

Only  the  rocks  along  that  trail,  could  they  speak, 
could  complete  a  history  of  The  Great  American  Trek 
— but  a  paragraph  of  a  few  gathered  fragments  will 
serve  to  show  the  tragedy  of  the  old  emigrant  road. 
As  the  caravans  of  Tripoli  waited  months  to  augment 
their  numerical  strength  against  the  fierce  Touareg 
buccaneers  of  the  desert  wastes  of  the  Sahara  before 
starting  on  their  way  to  the  great  trade  marts  of  the 
Sudan,  so  these  pioneers  united  their  forces  at  the 
starting  point  of  their  long  trail  for  protection  against 
the  hostile  Amerinds  of  the  great  plains. 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

How  many  died  of  those  who  started  westward  dur- 
ing this  sixteen  years  of  migration  or  how  many  eventu- 
ally arrived  at  the  Ultima  Thule  will  never  be  known. 
But  there  is  a  record  of  a  single  column,  fifty  thousand 
strong,  and  five  hundred  miles  in  length.  The  old  em- 
igrant road,  like  the  Saharan  trails,  may  be  said  to  be 
paved  with  the  bones  of  wayfarers. 

In  1852  was  the  fatal  cholera.  Between  two  cross- 
ings of  the  Snake  River  eleven  of  twenty-three  people 
died  in  one  wagon  train,  while  one  day  and  two  nights 
saw  forty  people  of  another  train  buried  opposite  the 
trail.  Seven  persons  of  one  family  were  interred  in  a 
single  grave.  At  least  five  thousand  emigrants  found 
their  last  resting-place  on  the  prairies  in  that  fatal 
year.  The  dead  lay  in  rows  of  fifties  and  groups  of 
seventies;  and  many  claim  ten  per  cent  is  too  low  an 
estimate  for  a  single  twelvemonth. 

A  scout,  following  over  the  trail  from  the  Platte  to 
the  Laramie,  reported  that  on  one  side  of  the  river 
alone  he  counted  six  fresh  graves  to  the  mile  for  the 
entire  distance  of  four  hundred  miles.  When  it  is 
born  in  mind  that  on  the  north  bank  was  a  parallel  col- 
umn where  the  same  conditions  prevailed,  some  concep- 
tion of  the  fatalities  may  be  had.  How  many  died? 
Even  the  approximate  number  of  the  total  toll  paid 
by  these  pioneers  of  the  plains  will  never  be  known; 
the  roll  call  was  never  made. 

The  march  of  the  Oregon  pioneers  was  a  vast  move- 
ment of  families,  a  romance  of  adventure,  enterprise, 
patriotism  and  lofty  ambition  peculiarly  characteristic 
of  America.  We  of  this  more  effete  generation,  of 
this  day  of  steam  heat,  hot  water  and  upholstered 
Pullmans,  may  well  pause  a  moment  in  our  excession 
of  the  human  economic  speed  limit  and  pay  tribute  to 

xxviii 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

these  pioneers  of  the  interminable  forests,  mighty 
rivers,  exhaustless  mines  and  Hmitless  plains,  who  have 
made  all  these  comforts  possible.  Well,  too,  if  we 
curtail  our  misuse  of  this  heritage  which  tends  to  that 
depleting  epidemic  of  civilization,  civilizitls. 

The  printed  story  of  the  adventures  and  sufferings  of 
these  pioneer  caravans  over  the  great  trek  from  1843 
to  1859  is  a  mere  synopsis  of  the  actualities.  The  story 
of  The  Old  Emigrant  Trail,  the  only  name  by  which 
the  pioneers  knew  It,  is  an  epic  in  American  life,  and 
the  emigration  to  Oregon  marks  an  era  in  American  his- 
tory— "Its  like  is  not  in  all  history." 

In  these  pages  it  is  my  privilege  to  pass  on  in  a 
meagre  way  fragments  of  the  pioneer's  message  and 
to  portray  remnants  of  a  portion  of  his  pioneer  life. 
Altho  those  who  read  may  have  known  him  not,  it  is 
believed  that  they  will  feel  in  these  episodes  and  de- 
scriptions at  least  a  faint  echo  of  his  heart  throbs 
which  have  become  the  pulse  beats  of  a  nation's  life. 

The  Star  of  Empire,  ever  beckoning  toward  the 
Eldorado  of  man's  hope,  brought  the  last  shift  of  the 
frontier  of  Europe  to  the  Sundown  Sea.  Our  country 
is  productive,  our  position  is  strategic,  and  our  climate 
produces  an  energetic  population ;  all  this  coupled  with 
the  fact  that  the  United  States  was  fundamentally 
peopled  by  an  Anglo-Saxon  race,  determines  our  des- 
tiny. 

The  Orient,  through  the  great  tide  of  the  Jehad  or 
Holy  War  of  Islam,  really  the  great  Arab  migration, 
reached  the  very  gates  of  Poitiers,  before  it  was 
stemmed  and  turned  back  by  Charlemagne.  The  tidal 
wave  of  the  Orient  Is  now  flowing  on  the  other  flank 
of  Western  civilization.  On  this  last  frontier  of  Eu- 
rope our  West  meets  East.     Our  trade  expansion  is 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

westward.  China  is  the  great  trade  emporium  of  the 
future. 

It  is  not  the  California-Japanese  question,  Lower 
California,  or  even  Yap  as  such,  which  raises  the 
threatening  cloud  on  the  western  horizon  of  the  Land 
of  the  Rising  Sun,  but  the  control  of  trade  in  the  Gold- 
en Land  of  the  Black  Dragon.  The  movement  of 
Western  civilization  has  met  a  counter-current  of  the 
East,  eddying  about  that  pin  point  in  the  Pacific — Yap. 
Hence  we  must  not  underestimate  the  importance  of 
the  development  of  the  West  as  a  basis  of  those  new 
world  influences,  and  we  must  be  alive  to  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  Pacific. 

From  Cape  Cod  to  Cape  Flattery  the  country  with 
each  shift  of  the  frontier  became  Americanized,  and 
each  shift  produced  its  type.  Each  type  whether  he 
be  Easterner,  Middle  State,  Southern  or  Western,  pos- 
sess those  salient  characteristics  which  stamp  him  with 
the  unmistakable  hall  mark— American. 

The  great  emigration  but  placed  these  pioneers  on 
the  threshold  of  that  era  which  makes  for  the  winning 
and  building  of  the  West;  and  it  is  to  our  forefather 
pioneers  of  this  era  that  we  owe  the  results  of  their 
elemental  life  in  conquering  the  desert  plains,  trackless 
forests  and  great  rivers  of  the  vast  American  waste 
they  sternly  invaded.  The  freedom  of  that  elemental 
life,  the  daily  association  with  its  poetry  and  charm  as 
well  as  its  dangers,  has  developed  a  virile  American 
type.  It  is  a  debt  of  loyalty  and  understanding  that  is 
imposed  on  us  of  this  generation  to  pay  tribute  to  these 
scouts  of  a  dawning  civilization  and  to  preserve  the 
heritage  which  these  intrepid  layers  of  the  foundations 
of  the  great  West  have  bequeathed. 

The  stranger  in  the  West  is  particularly  impressed 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

with  the  fact  that  the  West  still  retains  its  frontier 
characteristics,  its  lore  and  songs.  There  are  even  now 
living  pioneers  who,  through  the  round  openings  at  the 
end  of  the  ox-drawn  prairie  schooner,  saw  the  East 
diminish  and  the  West  grow  big;  who  have  lived 
through  the  days  of  the  log  cabin  with  its  puncheon 
floor  and  the  "shake"  house,  and  stocked  their  first 
larders  with  buffalo,  antelope  and  bear  meat  from  plain 
and  mountain. 

Through  arduous  days  and  nights,  hard  at  their  best, 
and  rendered  desperate  by  Indian  wars,  whole  scattered 
settlements  had  to  "fort  up";  through  those  days 
when  defiance  of  law  was  in  the  foreground  and  out- 
lawry ruled,  they  endured  until  the  level-headed  better 
class  organized  the  "vigilantes"  and  "passed  on"  some 
of  the  notorious  bad  characters  by  the  "short  cut"  in- 
stead of  the  usual  "highway  round"  and  brought  the 
"bad  man"  to  the  realization  that  human  law  is  a  neces- 
sity. Thus  through  the  pioneers'  progress  they  have 
passed  to  the  today  of  palatial  homes,  protection  of  the 
law,  the  telephone,  telegraph  and  canned  foods. 

Many  an  actor  who  carried  the  principal  parts 
against  the  background  of  this  greatest  of  national 
melodramas  still  stalks  in  the  flesh.  There  are  yet  to 
be  found,  tucked  away  in  stray  corners,  the  cattle 
rancher,  cowboy,  sheriff,  horse-thief,  ranger,  road 
agent,  trapper  and  trader,  the  old  stage  driver,  freight- 
er, gambler,  canoeman,  the  missionary,  pioneer 
woman,  old-time  scout,  the  placer-miner,  the  Indian — 
all  pioneer  types,  primeval  actors  in  this  great  dramat- 
ic Odyssey  of  American  adventure  and  development, 
the  building  of  the  West. 

Yes,  many  of  the  actors  are  here,  but  the  scenery  has 
changed  and  most  of  them  are  out  of  a  job.     Yet  in 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

some  parts  of  the  interior  country  the  last  vestige  of 
pioneer  and  range  Hfe,  and  the  art  of  its  calHng  is  still 
carried  on.  Times  are  changing,  the  march  of  progress 
is  fast  obliterating  the  dashing  cowboy  and  those  other 
picturesque  characters  of  the  passing  of  the  old  West. 
The  Old  West  is  dying  out ;  but  if  one  thinks  the  spirit 
of  the  Old  West  is  dying,  a  certain  three  days  of  any 
September  spent  at  the  time  of  the  gathering  of  the 
clans  in  the  little  city  of  Pendleton  in  Eastern  Oregon, 
will  soon  change  one's  mind  and  will  convince  one  that 
here  is  seen  the  metamorphosis  of  the  Old  West  into 
that  of  the  New. 

Man  ever  seeks  to  perpetuate  himself  and  his  his- 
tory. In  almost  all  lands  there  are  certain  feasts  and 
carnivals.  Sometimes  they  take  the  form  of  pageants 
to  commemorate  certain  anniversaries,  the  founding  of 
the  nation,  the  founding  of  cities,  to  honor  saints'  days, 
or  in  commemoration  of  historic  individuals,  events 
or  episodes.  This  idea  is  simply  a  symbolism  of  the 
spirit  of  the  people,  the  most  precious,  concrete,  prac- 
tical and  ideal  asset  that  a  people  may  have. 

The  oldest  national  carnival,  the  Olympiad  which  im- 
mortalized the  art  and  athletic  powers  of  classic 
Greece,  still  calls  to  its  Olympic  Games  in  the  stadia 
of  the  western  world  the  youthful  contestants  of  all 
nations.  Perhaps  the  greatest  and  most  famous  of 
community  symbols  is  the  Passion  Play  in  the  little 
hamlet  of  Oberammergau,  symbolizing  a  great  relig- 
ious idea;  while  the  Mission  Play  at  San  Gabriel  out 
of  Los  Angeles  has  both  a  religious  and  historical 
incentive. 

Each  year  at  Pendleton,  Oregon,  there  occurs  in  the 
fall  a  great  carnival  which  epitomizes  the  most  dra- 
matic phases  of  the  pioneer  days  of  the  West — and  its 


FRONTIERSPIECE 

spirit.  There  the  real,  practical  work  of  the  trail,  cow- 
camp  and  range  is  shown,  through  the  sports  of  the 
pioneer;  for  the  play  of  a  people  is  usually  but  a  nor- 
mal outgrowth  and  expert  expression  of  its  work. 

This  great  carnival  is  supported  by  the  community 
spirit  of  Pendleton  and  the  surrounding  country.  It 
is  essentially  an  American  pageant  and  typifies  a  phase 
of  American  life  which  will  soon  have  passed  forever 
below  the  horizon  of  time,  but  should  be  eternally  en- 
graved on  the  escutcheon  of  our  history. 

The  Round-Up  is  an  epitome  of  the  end  of  The 
Great  Migration  on  this  continent  and  stands  not  only 
as  typical  of  Pendleton,  but  of  Oregon,  of  the  West, 
of  America.  This  panorama  of  the  passing  of  the  Old 
West  is  a  page  torn  literally  from  the  Book  of  our 
Nation,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  offer  this  little 
volume  as  a  chapter  of  the  pioneer  story  as  shown  in 
the  Epic  Drama  of  the  West. 


CONTENTS 

Putting  on  the  Brand        .        .        ,        . 
The  First  Throw  of  the  Rope  and  Why 
Slaps  on  the  Back  to  Those  Who  Helped 


Frontierspiece 

CHAPTER 

I. — Out  Where  the  West  Begins 
II. — Til  Taylor — Sheriff 
III. — Corral  Dust 
IV. — Milling  With  the  Night  Herd 
V. — The  Round-up 

The  Bucker's  Own  Table 
The  Rode  and  Thrown  Table 
The  Bucking  Time  Table 
Tips  to  the  Tenderfoot 


PAGE 

'    vii 

xi 

xvii 

xxiii 


5 
40 
59 
98 
134 
228 
230 
232 
.  235 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
A  Fight  to  a  Finish    ....       Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

Pendleton  and  Its  Wheat  Lands  From  the  Air  6 

Pageant  of  the  Passing  of  the  Old  West        .  7 

The  Sheriff 54 

The  Epic  Drama  of  the  West  on  Parade          .  55 

A  Shooting  Star 68 

Sailing  High 68 

Spinning  the  Wedding  Ring  ....  69 
Pawin',  Hoofin'  and  Rarin'  Ter  Go     .         .        .94 

Saddle  Him  or  Bust 95 

A  Pioneer  of  the  Old  West  ....  106 
Type  of  the  Manhood  and  Womanhood  of  the 

Range 107 

A  Mad-Cap  Ride,  Everybody  For  Himself  .  .  142 
A  Wild  Swing  and  Tear  Through  a  Smother 

OF  Dust 142 

Swift  and  Reckless  at  the  Turns     ,         .         .  142 

Swinging  the  Turns  Like  Galleons  in  a  Gale  143 

Catch  as  Catch  Can 148 

Bidding  the  Steer  Good-bye         .        .        .        .148 

Hook  'im  Cow 149 

The  Cow-pony's  End  of  the  Game      .        .        .  152 

Hogtied!    Hands  and  Heads  Up          ...  152 

A  Merry-Go-Round 153 

Stay  With  'im  Cowboy 153 

xxxvii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING   PAGE 

Dare  Devil  Riding  at  Top  Speed         .        .        .     156 

That's  Tyin'  'im 156 

A  Pretty  Throw 157 

An  Epic  Fight      . 160 

The  Navy  Taking  on  Fresh  Beef        .         .         ,     160 

Bite  'im  Lip! 161 

Thumbs  Up! 161 

Grabbed    For   the   Horn    of   the    Saddle   and 

Picked  Up  a  Handful  of  Dirt         .        .        .     164 
When  Beef  is  Highest         .....     165 

Landing  at  the  Round-Up 165 

Seated  on  a  Ton  of  Living  Dynamite  .  ,  168 
Hitting  the  Grandstand  Between  the  Eyes  .  169 
All  Wound  Round  With  a  Woolen  String  .  169 
The  Ceremonial  War  Dance  of  the  Red  Men  174 
Hop  to  it!    Charlie  Irwin  Wrangling  For  His 

Daughter  in  the  Relay 175 

175 
184 
184 
185 
185 
190 
191 
191 
202 
203 
203 
210 
211 
211 
220 


Two  Indians 

Ride  Him  Cowboy  !         ..... 
Even  the  Horses  Ride  at  the  Round-Up    . 
The  Queen  of  Reinland  Gracing  Her  Throne 
A  Pretty  Ride  With  Hobbled  Stirrups 
Why  This  One  Was  Not  in  the  Finals    . 
We  Would  Ride  That  Way 
All  Over  But  the  Singin*    .... 

Art  in  the  Rough 

Looking  For  a  Soft  Spot      .... 
The  Greatest  Rider  of  the  Red  Race 

Let  'Er  Buck  ! 

Stay  a  Long  Time,  Cowboy! 

One  of  the  Greatest  Rides  Ever  Made     . 

Hell  Bent 


xxxvni 


LET  'ER  BUCK 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

CHAPTER  ONE 

OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

"From  the  East?"  and  the  speaker,  a  husky  lad, 
whose  voice  occasionally  skipped  its  lower  register, 
cast  a  furtive  glance  at  my  headdress — that  inartistic 
abomination,  the  derby;  then  he  scanned  my  trousers, 
still  retaining  a  faint  semblance  of  creases,  despite  the 
long  journey  from  the  City  of  Public  Spirit  and  East 
Winds. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.     "Ever  been  there?" 

"I  rounded  up  at  Lincoln,  Nebraska,  once,"  and 
another  geographical  illusion  was  dispelled.  We  were 
jogging  along  on  the  tail-end  platform  of  a  train 
from  Walla  Walla  through  Eastern  Oregon  toward 
Pendleton. 

"Goin'totheRound-Up?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  some  show.  The  boys  have  been  riding  in 
for  a  couple  of  days  now." 

"You're  going,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Not  and  hold  my  job.  Yer  see" — and  he  tapped  his 
water-filled  pail  and  fire-fighting  apparatus  with  his 
foot — "the  country's  pretty  dry.     I've  got  to  hang  to 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

What!  You  don't  know  this  country — never  saw  that  mar- 
velous view  from  pine-clad  Cabbage  Hill  in  spring,  that  won- 
derview  on  the  new  highway  of  the  Old  Oregon  Trail? 

Spread  over  the  lap  of  the  Umatilla  Valley,  nestling  on  the 
gently  undulating  bosom  of  its  hills,  lie  the  cultivated  lands. 
Over  the  valley  floor  is  a  marvelous,  magic  color-carpet  of  Na- 
ture. Into  this  design,  she  has  woven  the  yellow,  pink,  brown 
and  old  rose  rectangles  of  stubble  fields  and  summer  fallow, 
alternated  it  with  the  emerald  and  distant  turquoise  of  luxuriant, 
verdant  fields  of  spring  sowing,  and  dark-accented  it  with  rich 
maroons  and  distant  purples  of  the  near-summer  plowing.  Into 
it  she  has  dabbed  some  odd  plays  of  shadow  which  dash  it  with 
lapis-lazuli,  levantine,  and  violet  and  finally,  has  stitched  through 
its  center,  the  careless-rambling,  silver  thread  of  the  river. 
Nature  through  her  mist-charged  atmosphere  holds  before  you 
crystal  globes  of  amethyst,  opal,  tourmaline  and  bids  you  gaze 
into  this  Valley  of  Rainbows. 

Week  by  week  one  may  see  this  restful  Eden  of  Colors  meta- 
morphose through  summer  to  fall.  Again  Nature  holds  before 
your  gaze  a  transparent  crystal  now  of  iridescent  gold,  waves 
her  wand  of  time  over  the  magic  carpet  and  bids  you  behold  the 
products  of  one  of  earth's  richest  granaries. 

Journey  now  by  aeroplane  over  this  huge,  earthen  bowl  called 
the  county  of  Umatilla  of  nearly  two  million  acres  in  extent,  and 
drained  by  the  numerous  streams  from  the  Blue  Mountains. 
Over  mountain  slope  and  upland  valley  we  skim  the  tree-tops  of 
forests  of  standing  timber,  fly  over  irrigated  lands  of  vege- 
tables and  fruits  and  the  fourth  crop  of  alfalfa  purpling  in  the 
sun ;  speed  over  grazing  lands  dotted  with  a  million  sheep  and  a 
half  million  head  of  other  livestock;  glide  over  the  vast  areas 
which  are  sown  with  softly,  undulating  seas  of  grain  products, 
producing  five  million  bushels  of  wheat  alone. 

Swing  over  Hermiston,  Stanfield,  Umatilla,  Milton,  Athena  and 
Pendleton,  the  county  seat,  which  here  and  there  checkerboard 
the  landscape,  their  modern  mills,  factories  and  industries  taking 
care  of  the  predominating  agrarian  pursuits.  Hover  now  over 
the  Round-Up  City,  Pendleton,  the  trade  emporium  of  eastern 
Oregon.  It  lies  like  a  clean-cut  gem  in  a  band  of  green,  sur- 
rounded with  a  setting  of  gold.  But  for  the  whir  of  the  motor 
you  might  hear  the  drone  of  its  industry,  for  here  the  manu- 
facturing of  eastern  Oregon  centers.  Main  Street  defines  the 
center  of  this  biggest  little  city  of  its  size  in  the  West;  the 
great  oval  and  the  little  cones  of  white  to  the  left  and  almost 
beneath  us  define  the  Round-Up  Park  and  the  lodges  of  the 
Umatillas.  Here  we  alight,  for  tomorrow  the  great  carnival  of 
the  cowboy  and  Indian  is  on.  This  is  indeed  "Out  Where  the 
West  Begins." 


55 


iH      .t;    M 


3  T) 

■>q;       ^    o  c 

_      o   h  ^ 

"  =  "5, 


n!     1)     O     C 


j>      "aj 


§  IS  '-^  H 


CJ 

ai 

a; 

OJ 

^ 

c 

♦^ 

a 

is 

si 

o 

0) 

'3 

c 

^ 

•o 

o 

o 

3 

a 

X 

c 

^ 

o 

u: 

^ 

1) 

Oi 

4) 

<u 

M 

^    &  -  •=  > 


3     O   =   ^ 

rv   j_i    *-»     O 
i-J    (U    c   ■^-' 


(^  ►S 


5"  3  o   9 


S  f^  5' 


@ 


0     5     3* 


»  o  ^  t^ 

3-  °  3-  C 

2  TO  s  P- 
<§.  3  S  ■< 

G  ^3* 

7Q  O  ^  rt 

f=  m  S  " 

(T)  P  3  2^ 

g  W  w  *^ 

3  •o  f^  S 
P  O  3  '^ 

<  1  ;i-  o 

"I  ^  re  '^ 

en  3  "^  f^ 

S  '"  O.  re 

P  O  P  1 

2  <  3  re 

3  2  ^  3 

s  ^  =^  S" 

g  !>r  "  J? 

P-  3  —  - 

"  O  =■  P 

-^  3  ^  r^ 


w  ^  3 

2  S  S 

S-S.  J 

^    r*     3 

■      P    t' 

'  S^'S'  s, 

?  o    P 
u^    n    w 

^  £  p 

3  q.  P 
.  d  re    p 

■■^  °  s 
^  "  s 


r   re    D- 


3-      il 


THE  PAGEANT  OF  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  WEST 

This  greatest  of  all  human  shows  is  a  magnificent  three-day 
cowboy  carnival,  given  over  to  the  old  sports  and  passing  life 
of  the  frontier,  characteristic,  unique,  thrilling,  a  classic  in  which 
the  Old  West  stalks  before  one  in  the  flesh.  Here  gather  over  a 
thousand  cowboys,  cowgirls,  Indians,  stage  drivers  and  cow- 
country  people.  They  ride  in  from  Tum-a-lum  to  Hidaway, 
they  come  from  California  and  the  Dakotas,  and  from  beyond 
the  Mexican  border  and  the  Canadian  line.  These  actors  are 
real  range  folk  fresh  from  the  ranges  and  reservations  and 
include  the  most  superb  contingent  of  rough  riders  ever  brought 
together. 

From  the  time  the  starter's  first  pistol  shot  rings  out  at  one 
each  afternoon  until  the  wild  horse  race  is  finished  there  is  not 
an  idle  moment  in  the  spectacles  spread  out  before  one,  not  a 
break  in  the  unbroken  chain  of  head  and  heart  thrillers,  in  the 
wonderful  feats  performed. 

In  this  pageant  of  the  old  range  sports  and  pastimes,  men  of 
agile  body  and  iron  nerve  vie  in  fancy  roping  and  trick  riding; 
compete  in  cowpony  and  standing  races,  in  the  relay  and  pony 
express,  in  roping  wild  steers  and  bulldogging  Texas  longhorns; 
participate  in  the  grand  mounted  parade;  dance  in  Indian  cere- 
monials; race  with  the  old  stagecoaches;  contest  on  famous 
bucking  bulls,  steers,  and  buffaloes  and  on  the  backs  of  the 
world's  worst  outlaw  horses.  There  is  no  set  stage  effect,  all 
events  are  competitive,  the  climaxes  impromptu.  It  is  all  "best," 
marvelous,  new  and — all  American. 

It  is  the  child  of  Pendleton's  sturdy  citizens,  who  have,  as 
though  by  magic,  created  a  fascinating  instructive  object  lesson 
in  Nature  and  modernized  humanity.  It  is  owned  by  the  munici- 
pality of  Pendleton,  pays  neither  dividends  nor  profits  and  is 
staged  by  a  volunteer  association  of  young  men  who  serve  with- 
out salaries.  Its  money  goes  into  prizes  for  the  contestants  and 
the  improvement  of  the  city.  The  arena  is  enclosed  by  a  quarter 
mile  track  which  is  almost  entirely  surrounded  by  grandstand 
and  bleachers  with  a  total  seating  capacity  of  40,000,  the  largest 
west  of  the  Mississippi  River.  It  is  a  monument  to  the  little 
city  who  birthed  and  matured  it. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  more  thrillmg  impressive  spec- 
tacle, it  nurtures  the  wonderful  heritage  our  forefathers  created 
for  us,  it  puts  a  glow  into  the  minds  of  youth,  it  strikes  you 
squarely  between  the  eyes,  and  reveals  the  great  living,  panting 
West  before  you. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

the  tail-end  of  this  puffin'  cayiise  'cause  it  snorts  cinders 
and  I've  got  to  watch  out  for  fires  along  the  trail." 

The  country  was  indeed  dry.  Some  of  the  grain  still 
lay  in  the  sheaf.  IMiles  of  golden-yellow  stubble- 
fields  undulated  away  in  the  distance;  willows  and 
cottonwoods  stenciled  green  along  the  watercourses  or 
clustered  about  an  occasional  ranch-house  or  "nesters" 
cabin.  A  few  scattered  herds  of  live  stock  grazed  here 
and  there,  where  buffalo  wallows  still  show  green  and 
the  slopes  are  scarred  with  the  parallel  trails  of  the 
Great  Herds  which  have  passed,  but  whose  remnant 
have  now  moved  back  from  the  lines  of  steel  to  the 
"interior  country." 

Wherever  the  railroads  have  thrust  their  antennae, 
the  open  range  becomes  dotted  with  the  homesteaders' 
shacks  and  webbed  with  wire ;  dry  farming  and  irriga- 
tion turn  a  one-time  half-desert  into  fertile  fields  and 
blossoming  orchards.  Thus  agriculture  crowds  out 
the  pastoral,  and  industry  in  turn  both  aids  and  crowds 
out  agriculture;  and  the  "chapped"  (schapped)  and 
"booted"  cowboy  and  stockman  retreat  to  their  last 
stamping-ground,  where  the  Indians,  trappers,  pros- 
pectors, and  buckskin-garbed  scouts  have  preceded 
them. 

In  Oregon,  however,  there  remains  even  today  some 
interior  country  where  the  free  life  of  the  open  is 
still  unhampered  by  a  useless  and  deadening  veneer 
of  paternal  regulations  and  effete  conventionalities. 
There  are  still  a  few  out-of-the-way  corners  yet  un- 
turned by  the  plow  and  unvexed  by  wire  fences;  and 
a  day  in  the  saddle  back  from  many  of  the  railroads 
brings  one  to  a  ranch  country  yet  awaiting  the  settler 
where  the  cowboy  still  "ropes"  and  "busts"  steer  or 
bronco,  "brands" and  "hog-ties"  calf  and  longhorn,  and 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

occasionally  rides  into  town  a-whooping;  where  the 
rustler  still  "rustles,"  and  the  sheriff  and  his  posse  pur- 
sue with  the  same  cautious  dash  or  reckless  bravado 
that  have  given  these  unplumed  knights  of  the  range  a 
permanent  place  in  American  history. 

The  frontiersman,  often  the  unnamed  explorer,  was 
always  the  advance-guard  of  civilization,  who,  with 
the  cavalry  outposts,  held  and  ever  advanced  the  fron- 
tier. They  were  the  pioneer  winners  of  the  West,  the 
protectors  and  sponsors  for  a  thinner-blooded  civiliza- 
tion which  followed  in  their  wake. 

Through  the  West  of  today  one  skirts  fruit-laden 
hillsides  and  valleys  larger  than  many  Eastern  counties, 
rolls  past  vast  wheat-fields,  as  big  as  some  nations,  and 
pauses  at  the  cities — big,  white,  and  new — seemingly 
grown  up  in  a  night  out  of  the  prairies.  There  is  a 
breezy  frankness  in  the  way  of  the  well-paved,  broad 
"Main"  Street,  wonderfully  lit  up  with  its  cluster  of 
lights,  strikes  out  at  right  angles  to  the  track  from  a 
well-designed  station,  inviting  you  through  the  town, 
to  let  you  out  as  frankly  on  to  the  prairie.  It  all  be- 
speaks, youth,  growth  and  optimism. 

Suddenly  a  small  black  wraith  of  smoke  smooched 
the  low-rolling  hillsides.  The  lad  yanked  the  signal 
cord,  and  before  the  train  had  stopped^  was  speeding 
pail  in  hand,  toward  the  cinder-started  blaze. 

"He'll  pick  us  up  around  the  bend  at  Athena,"  the 
brakeman  said. 

In  less  than  an  hour  we  rolled  into  Pendleton.  I 
swung  off  tlie  train  in  the  tang  of  the  September 
morning.  Ill  suppressed  exuberance  and  expectancy 
seemed  to  emanate  from  the  quiet  stir  of  the  attractive 
little  city.  Bunting,  streamers,  and  flags  bulged  and 
flapped  gracefully  in  the  soft  laft  of  air  which  draws 

9 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

up  the  river  valley  from  the  prairie.  Two  tented  cities 
had  sprung  up  near  the  city  edge  and  hundreds  of  sin- 
gle tents  white-dotted  the  yards  of  residents.  The 
church,  where  one  turns  to  go  up  the  hill,  hospitably 
announced  both  cots  and  meals  within.  Months  pre- 
viously every  hotel  room  had  been  engaged  and  every 
private  citizen  who  could  do  so  offered  accommoda- 
tions. Now  even  box  cars  for  quarters  had  been 
shunted  in  on  the  sidings. 

If  you  lived  within  a  thousand  miles  of  eastern 
Oregon,  you  would  know  why,  and  if  you  were  a  ten- 
derfoot, even  from  as  far  as  the  outer  edge  of  Cape 
Cod  at  low  tide,  you  ought  to.  In  fact,  some  travelers 
journey  across  the  seas,  that  for  three  whole  days 
they  may  live  the  spirit  of  the  Old  West  and  feel  them- 
selves a  part  of  that  epic  drama  for  which  Pendleton 
stands — the  Round-Up. 

For  some  days  before  the  Round-Up  the  vanguard 
of  visitors  comes  in,  in  the  comfortable  Pullmans,  on 
the  smooth  lines  of  steel  laid  along  trails  where  once 
hardy  pioneers,  with  bullock-spanned  prairie  schooners, 
had  pushed  back  the  frontier  toward  the  western  sea. 

Even  today,  however,  one  feels  the  touch  and  senses 
the  romance  of  the  passing  West,  as  along  every 
trail  and  road  which  converges  toward  Pendleton, 
cowboys  and  cowgirls  come  riding  in  to  the  jingling  of 
spur  and  the  retch  of  leather.  So,  too,  come  the 
Amerinds  from  their  reservations — bucks,  squaws,  and 
papooses — with  tepee-poles  and  outfit,  stored  in  every 
kind  of  wheeled  rig,  and  drawn  by  every  variety  of 
cayuse,  nigger  pony  to  "calico."  A  few  traveled  as  did 
their  fathers — with  belongings  lashed  to  long,  trailing, 
sagging  travois  (travoy).  Over  half  a  thousand  strong, 
these  redmen  of  mountain  and  plain  soon  had  their 

10 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

lodge-poles  pointing  skyward,  and,  like  mushrooms  in 
a  night,  a  white  tepee  village  had  sprung  up  in  the 
picturesque  cottonwoods  near  the  Pendleton  ford  by 
the  old  Oregon  Trail. 

Even  before  the  first  day  of  the  Round-Up,  Main 
Street,  which  shoots  over  a  rise  into  wheat  fields, 
was  in  gala  dress.  Beneath  the  banners  and  flags 
strung  overhead,  lifting  lazily  in  the  soft  stir  of  air, 
cowboys  in  gaudy  shirts  of  red,  blue,  purple,  yellow, 
and  green,  and  kerchiefs  of  many  hues,  cowgirls  in  at- 
tractive dresses  of  fringed  buckskin,  and  Indians  with 
multicolored  blankets  and  beaded  moccasins,  move  like 
an  everchanging  chromoscope  among  the  neutral- 
clothed  townsmen. 

Yes,  it  was  "goin'  to  the  Round-Up,"  as  the  lad  had 
said,  which  brought  me  like  thousands  of  others  to  this 
"biggest  little  city  of  its  size"  in  the  West. 

The  term  "Round-Up"  is  taken  from  the  old  range 
expression  meaning  the  "rounding  up" — encircling  and 
herding  together  of  the  cattle  previous  to  the  spring 
"branding,"  "cutting  out,"  or  fall  "drive."  When  the 
Round-Up  is  spoken  of,  the  carnival  held  at  Pendleton 
is  meant.  It  is  a  grand  carnival  of  the  frontiersman 
in  commemoration  of  that  fine  old  life  with  its  thrills 
and  its  dangers,  many  phases  of  which  have  already 
passed  into  history. 

The  dynamic  forces  of  modern  "civilization" — ap- 
plied science  and  industry — have  caused  most  of  the 
old  range  country  of  the  United  States  to  be  re-mapped 
into  town  and  homestead  with  astonishing  swiftness. 
In  the  old  days — within  the  memories  of  men  still  in 
the  prime  of  life — the  west  country  was  essentially  a 
"cow  country."  Every  ranch  had  its  "cow  hands" 
who  could  rope  and  ride.    Every  ranch  had  its  horses, 

11 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

those  indispensable  factors  of  range  work,  to  break  and 
train.  Often  a  man's  standing  or  usefulness  depended 
on  his  ability  in  this  work,  so  it  was  but  natural  that 
each  "outfit"  tested  out  their  men  in  bucking  contests. 
This  led  to  these  champions  meeting  in  competition, 
often  at  town  or  ranch  on  certain  holidays  or  festival 
occasions,  usually  at  a  time  of  year  when  work  was 
slackest  in  their  locality. 

But  a  few  years  ago,  every  camp  and  hamlet  in  the 
cow  country  had  its  bucking  contests.  As  the  range 
began  to  disappear  before  the  wire  fence,  the  cultivated 
fields  and  the  railroads,  so  did  the  cattle  and  the  cow- 
boy and  the  bucking  contests.  But  his  is  a  tenacious 
clan  and  dies  hard,  as  do  all  inherent  potential  elements 
of  a  nation  or  civilization.  Many  a  remote  ranch  or 
hamlet  still  "pulls  off''  its  old  time  bucking  contest,  tho 
they  are  more  centralized  now  in  certain  local  points. 
The  contestants  come  in  from  greater  distances  to  com- 
pete, and  give  to  many  the  character  of  great  range 
shows  or  carnivals. 

Such  carnivals  are  held  in  certain  centers  of  the 
West;  to  each  is  given  its  name.  Cheyenne  has  its 
"Frontier  Days";  Fort  Worth,  Texas,  the  "Cattle 
Men's  Carnival";  Denver  has  its  "Festival  of  Moun- 
tain and  Plain";  Winnipeg,  has  its  "Stampede"; 
Grangeville,  Idaho,  its  "Border  Days";  Kearney, 
Nebraska,  its  "Frontier  Round-Up";  Idaho  Falls,  its 
"War  Bonnet  Round-Up";  Salinas,  California,  its 
"Rodeo";  Ukiah,  Oregon,  its  "Cowboys'  Conven- 
tion"; and  Walla  Walla,  Washington,  has  its  "Fron- 
tier Days";  a  civic  show  in  which  there  is  more 
real  competition  than  in  any  other  outside  of  Pendleton. 
Then  there  are  minor  and  more  sporadic  contests 
held   in   Belle   Fouche,    South   Dakota;   Billings   and 

12 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

Bozeman,  Montana;  Bovina,  Texas;  Sioux  City, 
Iowa;  Battle  Ground,  Tacoma,  and  Seattle  in  Wash- 
ington, with  others  in  Arizona  and  New  Mexico,  as 
well  as  a  thousand  less  known  little  ones. 

To  Cheyenne  must  be  given  the  credit  of  presenting 
what  was  probably  the  first  big  contest,  Frontier  Days, 
staged  as  a  show.  This  was  indelibly  put  on  the  pages 
of  history  by  that  ardent  lover  of  the  West  and  its 
spirit, — the  great  American,  the  late  Theodore  Roose- 
velt. Different  ranch  outfits  put  on  the  Frontier 
Days  exhibitions — McCarty  and  Guilford  one  year  for 
instance,  Charlie  Irwin  another.  The  tremendous 
success  of  these  shows  will  always  stand  to  the  credit  of 
those  efficient  and  enthusiastic  managers. 

Each  show  has  a  slogan,  as  indispensable  as  that  of 
clan  or  college,  expressed  in  terms  of  the  cow-camp. 
A  few  of  the  words  of  that  terse  and  expressive 
phraseology  are  arbitrary  and  carry  no  special  signifi- 
cance of  their  origin  or  of  themselves,  but  those  in 
common  usage  are  wonderfully  to  the  point  to  one 
who  knows  chaparral  and  sage-brush  and  loves  the 
smell  of  leather.  At  Walla  Walla  the  slogan  is  "Let 
'er  kick";  at  Grangeville,  "Hook'em  cow,"  a  term  of 
encouragement  to  a  roped  or  "bulldogged"  steer.  At 
Pendleton  it  is  "Let  'er  buck,"  a  phrase  which,  briefly  in- 
terpreted, means  "get  busy",  but  is  primarily  applied  to  a 
cowboy  about  to  mount  the  hurricane  deck  of  a  "buck- 
ing" broncho;  and  when  you  hear  that  cowboy  yell, 
whether  in  the  arena  at  Pendleton  or  on  the  range,  it  is 
a  safe  bet  that  something  startling  is  about  to  begin. 

Human  actions  are  but  thoughts  expressed,  and 
when  a  group  of  Pendletonians  desire  to  start  some- 
thing distinctively  original,  yet  adapted  to  the  Pendle- 
ton country,  it  is  a  safe  bet  that  it  will  be  put  over. 

13 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

In  the  pioneer  days  when  the  long,  tempestuous 
journey  around  the  tip  end  of  South  America,  where  it 
was  said  men  hung  their  consciences  on  the  Horn,  was 
the  only  way  of  bringing  freight  to  Oregon.  In  those 
days  before  "Bill"  Cody  rounded  up  buffalo  meat  for 
the  Union  Pacific  and  the  railroads  were  built,  Uma- 
tilla, sixty  miles  down  the  river  from  Pendleton,  was 
the  head  of  navigation  and  the  focal  point  of  depart- 
ure for  pack-trains  to  the  placer  mines  of  Idaho,  which 
were  the  great  things  in  those  days,  as  agriculture  had 
not  then  developed.  Anybody  who  lived  anywhere  at 
that  time  lived  in  Umatilla  which  had  almost  as  large 
a  floating  population  as  its  permanent  one,  for  it  was  the 
center  both  for  supplies  and  a  "fling"  to  the  far-flung 
population  of  the  greater  portion  of  three  states. 

The  rest  of  Eastern  Oregon  contained  only  scatter- 
ing settlements;  for  instance,  Pendleton  itself  at  that 
time  consisted  of  the  stage-stop  hotel,  the  Pendleton, 
a  general  store  and  the  few  typical  false  fronts  of  a 
Western  pioneer  town.  There  were  only  two  resi- 
dences, the  house  of  Judge  Bailey  and  one  other. 
Thus  Umatilla  became  the  county  seat  of  Umatilla 
County,  which  at  that  time,  1863,  included  practically 
all  of  Oregon  east  of  the  John  Day  River,  as  it  was 
the  metropolis  and  great  trade  emporium  of  Eastern 
Oregon,  which  included  most  of  Washington,  Oregon 
and  Idaho. 

As  the  ends  of  those  great  ever-projecting  probosces 
of  civilization,  the  railroads,  thrust  their  feelers  further 
west,  the  Horn  route  fell  into  disuse  and  the  overland 
routes  from  the  East  increased  the  development  and 
population  of  Eastern  Oregon.  When  in  1868  the  Cen- 
tral Pacific  pushed  into  Nevada,  the  bulk  of  the  Idaho 
trade  followed  it.     This  killed  Umatilla — which  was 

14 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

"some  town"  in  its  day — and  decreased  its  population ; 
while  that  of  Eastern  Oregon  especially  between  '66 
and  '68  increased,  and  Pendleton  became  a  more  nat- 
ural and  easily  reached  center  for  the  inhabitants. 

These  were  the  reasons  advanced  for  the  transfer  of 
the  county  seat  to  Pendleton,  and  this  question  was 
agitated.  All  the  settlers  of  Eastern  Oregon  now  de- 
manded by  a  signed  petition  that  the  county  seat  be 
moved  nearer  their  center  of  population.  Pendleton 
considered  itself  the  logical  site  and  when  the  petition 
was  granted  by  the  legislature,  tho  no  definite  place  was 
decided  upon.  Judge  Bailey  in  January,  1868,  ordered 
the  county  officers  to  remove  the  records  to  Pendleton. 
This  was  done,  but  in  lieu  of  a  courthouse.  Judge 
Bailey's  cellar  was  the  official  repository.  Judge  Wil- 
son of  Umatilla  declared  this  removal  premature  and 
the  records  had  to  be  carted  back  over  the  old  Oregon 
Trail  again  to  the  Umatilla  courthouse. 

While  the  question  burned,  Pendleton  worked  The 
change  and  location  of  a  seat  for  the  county,  was  not 
going  to  be  delayed  through  any  fault  of  theirs,  besides, 
it  was  obvious  that  it  should  be  at  Pendleton,  and  now 
that  they  had  made  up  their  minds,  they  built  a  court- 
house in  short  order  before  the  question  was  settled. 
But  the  matter  held  fire  too  long  for  the  "go  get  'em" 
spirit  of  the  little  town.  Anyway,  what's  the  use  of 
having  a  courthouse  and  nothing  to  put  in  it  ? 

On  a  certain  week-end,  a  score  of  men,  heavily 
armed,  rode  down  "The  Meadow,"  lying  to  the  west  of 
Pendleton  along  the  river,  across  the  desert,  and  under 
the  cover  of  darkness  that  Saturday  night  entered  Uma- 
tilla. Early  the  next  morning  at  the  hour  when  men 
and  dogs  sleep  heaviest,  in  the  very  heart  of  Umatilla, 
they  piled  not  only  all  of  the  records  of  the  county  and 

15 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

the  county  seal,  but  the  county  officers  themselves,  in  a 
commandeered  wagon  and  under  heavy  mounted  es- 
cort departed  quickly,  and  deposited  their  official 
booty  in  the  "courthouse"  in  Pendleton. 

"Why  didn't  they  recapture  it?"  Well,  they  say 
because  it  was  Sunday. 

In  brief,  they  stole  the  county  seat  and  have  been 
sitting  on  it  ever  since. 

This  happened  in  1869.  So  when  in  1910  a  half 
dozen  young  men  of  Pendleton  sat  down  over  an  im- 
promptu luncheon  in  Portland  during  the  Rose  Festi- 
val and  originating  the  plan  for  the  Round-Up,  agreed 
to  "Go  get  'em",  it  was  also  a  safe  bet  that  they  would 
put  it  over. 

The  year  before  at  the  Pendleton  Fourth  of  July  ball 
game  a  saddle  had  been  put  up  for  the  bucking  event, 
and  Lee  Caldwell  won  it.  The  enthusiasm  over  this 
phase  of  the  celebration  left  no  doubt  as  to  the  eternal 
human  interest  in  riding  and  horsemanship,  and  in  the 
fight  for  supremacy  between  horse  and  rider.  Roy 
Raley  laid  before  the  others  a  plan  to  stage  a  big  fron- 
tier exhibition  in  which  rough-riding  for  the  cham- 
pionship of  the  Northwest  should  form  the  main 
feature,  and  the  idea  was  then  and  there  roped  and 
hog-tied. 

Besides  Roy  Raley,  Mark  Moorhouse,  Lawrence 
Frazier,  Tilman  Taylor,  James  Gwinn,  Harry  D.  Gray, 
Lee  Drake,  Sperry  and  some  others  were  the  prime 
movers  and  organizers,  but  to  the  two  former  men 
should  be  credited  the  building  of  the  framework  of  the 
show.  Of  those  outside  of  Pendleton  perhaps  no  sin- 
gle individual  achieved  more  for  the  Round-Up  than 
Samuel   Jackson   of   the   Oregon  Journal,   a   former 

Pendleton  boy. 

16 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

Under  the  name  of  the  Northwestern  Frontier  Ex- 
hibition Association,  "The  Round-Up"  was  born,  this 
name  having  bobbed  up  several  times  in  repHes  to  the 
advertisements  of  the  Association  for  a  suitable  appel- 
lation for  the  show. 

Six  officers  and  a  board  of  nine  directors  picked 
solely  for  their  individual  qualifications  led  the  organi- 
zation, which  comprised  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 
of  Pendleton  business  and  financial  men.  Roy  Raley, 
the  first  president  and  prime  mover  and  organizer, 
wrote  the  initial  program,  which,  it  is  interesting  to 
know,  has  never  been  practically  changed,  starting  fast 
and  snappy  with  the  cowboy  pony  race  and  following 
through  a  well-planned  gamut  of  range  sports  of  var- 
ious sorts ;  races,  steer  bulldogging  and  roping,  grand 
parade,  and  last  but  not  least,  that  king  of  sports,  buck- 
ing. Eventually  the  contests  led  to  the  world  cham- 
pionships competitions  in  these  sports. 

Shares  of  ten  dollars  each  were  sold  and  but  one 
share  to  a  man.  Supported  by  the  citizens  of  Pendle- 
ton, the  idea  was  backed  up  with  a  capitalization  of 
$5,000,  and  $3,200  worth  of  stock  was  sold.  Then 
a  first  directorate  of  fifteen  prominent  men  of 
Umatilla  County  were  elected  to  take  charge  of  the 
Round-Up.  Besides  the  president  there  were  six 
officers,  including  the  secretary  and  those  in  charge  of 
grounds,  live  stock,  arena  events,  Indians,  transporta- 
tion, parade  and  publicity,  and  last  those  who  acted  as 
guardian  angels  over  the  Round-Up's  interests  to  pre- 
vent profiteering. 

The  problems  were  by  no  means  simple  ones,  but  as 
one  of  the  original  directorate  remarked  to  me,  that 
first  Round-Up  compared  with  the  later  great  show, 
was  like  a  couple  of  kids  playing  ball  in  the  sand  lot 

17 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

as  compared  with  a  major  league.  The  principal  prob- 
lems were  publicity,  transportation  of  the  attendance, 
and  accommodation  of  the  great  crowds  by  the  little 
city,  then  a  trifle  over  five  thousand.  But  the  great 
problem  was  the  show  itself,  as  well  as  the  arena,  track, 
and  methods  of  entrance  and  exit,  not  only  for  the 
crowds  but  for  the  contestants  and  animals.  The  en- 
trances and  exits  were  uniquely  and  carefully  planned, 
so  as  not  to  interfere  with  each  other;  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  track  was  determined  upon  as  against  the  custom- 
ary half  mile  oval  in  order  to  bring  the  events  within 
the  easy  vision  of  all  the  spectators. 

Then  came  the  program  itself.  The  events  were  di- 
vided into  three  classes,  the  competitive,  non-competi- 
tive and  Indians.  Pep  and  snap  must  always  be  the 
prime  characteristic  of  the  show  so  there  must  be  con- 
stant contact  between  the  contestants  and  audience.  No 
waits  could  even  be  chanced.  There  were  always 
three  events  ready  or  on;  always  three  paddocks  and 
three  openings,  so  in  case  any  horse  or  contestant  was 
not  ready,  they  always  had  one  and  to  spare  to  shoot 
in. 

It  was  at  first  suggested  that  a  sham  battle  between 
soldiers  from  Vancouver  Barracks  and  the  Indians 
would  splendidly  depict  the  passing  of  the  last  fron- 
tier and  furnish  a  thrilling  climax.  Here  the  first 
snag  was  encountered  when  they  could  not  get  soldiers ; 
and  the  second  was  the  refusal  of  the  Indians  to  come 
in  and  be  shot  at,  even  with  blank  shells.  However, 
some  of  the  old  bucks  agreed  to  come  in  if  they  were 
allowed  to  do  the  shooting,  regardless  of  the  nature  of 
the  shells.  Then  it  was  that  the  roping  and  bulldog- 
ging  and  horse-bucking  ideas  went  over  big. 

Old  circus  bleachers  were  placed  around  a  track 

18 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

fenced  in  only  by  a  three-board  fence,  and  a  grand- 
stand capable  of  seating  three  hundred,  if  crowded,  was 
the  crowning  feature  of  the  structure.  Some  of  the 
directorate  were  so  confident  in  the  success  of  the  ven- 
ture that  they  figured  a  maximum  of  about  three 
thousand  on  the  biggest  day  and  bet  hats  and  cham- 
pagne {sic)  on  the  size  of  the  crowd. 

Four  thousand  five  hundred,  a  population  almost  as 
big  as  the  little  city  itself,  poured  in  on  the  banner  day, 
giving  receipts  of  about  eight  thousand  dollars,  and 
leaving  a  net  profit  of  three  thousand  dollars  for  the 
stockholders.  The  price  of  single  shares  went  from 
ten  dollars  to  fifty  and  a  telegram  from  a  New  York 
theatrical  syndicate  offered  to  buy  the  controlling  in- 
terest at  fifty  dollars  a  share. 

Pendleton  sat  up  and  took  notice,  and  right  here  the 
Pendleton  spirit  manifested  itself.  A  stockholders' 
meeting  was  called.  The  stockholders  were  asked  to 
give  up  their  stock,  practically  to  throw  away  not  only 
the  ten  dollars  they  had  paid  for  each  share,  but  also 
the  opportunity  to  sell  that  share  for  five  times  what 
they  had  paid  for  it,  to  give  their  show  to  the  City  of 
Pendleton,  and  then  dig  further  into  their  pockets  for 
an  additional  ten  thousand  to  buy  and  build  the  present 
Round-Up  grounds.  What  did  they  say?  Let  'er 
buck!,  that's  all.  And  let  'er  buck  they  did  to  the 
tune  of  an  additional  ten  thousand  dollars  with  which 
to  buy  and  build  the  present  Round-Up  grounds. 

This  property,  the  Round-Up  Park,  was  deeded  to 
the  City  of  Pendleton,  to  which  the  Northwestern 
Frontier  Exhibition  Association  pays  one  dollar  a 
year  for  its  use.  The  Association  is  a  corporation  in 
name  only,  and  the  stock  is  of  the  nominal  value  of 
ten  dollars  a  share;   but  its  only  real  value  is  the  fact 

19 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

that  it  has  voting  power.  The  stockholders  still  elect 
three  directors  and  for  that  purpose  alone  the  stock 
is  worth  thirty  dollars  a  share. 

The  compensation  to  the  directors  consists  solely  in 
being  a  director  of  the  Round-Up.  That's  all.  In 
fact  it  costs  each  one  of  them  considerable  money  in 
addition  to  actual  time  and  labor.  They  have  to  buy 
seats  for  themselves  and  folks,  and  sometimes  being  a 
director  costs  them  another  $52  for  a  box  or  what- 
ever it  is,  for  friends.  However,  they  did  vote 
themselves  one  favor.  On  the  night  before  the  ticket 
sale  numbers  from  one  to  eleven  are  put  on  pieces  of 
paper  and  shaken  in  a  hat.  Each  draws  a  number  rep- 
resenting his  place  in  the  choice  of  seats,  providing  he 
pays  for  them  out  of  his  own  pocket.  The  first  presi- 
dent even  was  the  seventh  in  his  drawing;  yet  no 
men  in  any  private  business  work  more  indefatigably 
and  with  greater  sacrifice  than  do  the  directors  to 
insure  the  success  of  the  Round-Up,  and  the  entire 
community  stands  back  of  them  to  a  man.  This  is 
why  the  Pendleton  Round-Up  has  developed  from  a 
little  community  affair  to  a  national  one. 

The  first  show  was  held  in  1910  on  what  was  then 
the  ball  park  and  on  a  little  dinkey  track,  egg-shaped 
on  account  of  the  form  of  the  grounds,  hardly  one- 
third  as  large  as  the  present  one.  The  home  stretch  in 
front  of  the  grandstand  probably  did  not  exceed  one 
hundred  yards  in  length.  The  two  or  three  Indian 
tepees  skirting  the  other  side  were  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  river.  The  present  copse  of  cottonwoods  which 
forms  the  background  of  the  great  Indian  village  was 
then  on  an  island,  which  the  next  year's  improvement 
included  in  the  Round-Up  grounds. 

The  second  year  saw  the  track  extended  to  its  pres- 

20 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

ent  dimensions,  its  sudden  enlargement  being  due  to 
an  incident  which  happened  the  first  year  in  the  Indian 
race  at  the  opening  of  the  show.  The  rules  provided 
that  all  Indians  should  be  clothed  only  in  breech  clout 
and  paint  and  should  ride  their  own  ponies.  One  In- 
dian was  painted  from  scalplock  to  toe  in  a  vivid  blue, 
standing  out  strikingly  in  contrast  with  the  others. 

At  the  crack  of  the  pistol  they  were  away  on  a 
wet,  muddy  track.  They  struck  tlie  first  turn,  which 
was  sharp  and  a  veritable  mudhole  at  the  small  end  of 
the  egg-shaped  track.  Down  went  the  leader,  the 
others  piling  on  top.  Every  man  went  down  and  every 
horse  piled  up.  Few  escaped  without  some  cut  or 
bruise,  while  the  blue  Indian  when  he  scrambled  out 
had  turned  black  in  the  mud;  in  fact  there  was  not 
enough  blue  on  him  to  make  even  the  seat  in  a  sailor's 
breeches.  Raley  was  terribly  perturbed,  but  Mark 
Moorhouse  said,  "Roy,  the  show's  made."  It  was  the 
first  thrill,  but  to  obviate  such  dangers,  the  plan  of  the 
quarter-mile  track  was  put  through  before  the  show 
last  year. 

Speaking  of  thrills,  it  will  be  interesting  to  comment 
on  the  careful  and  basic  consideration  given  to  the 
study  of  the  psychological  aspects  of  the  plans.  In  or- 
ganizing the  features  of  the  entertainment,  the  meet- 
ings lasted  often  far  into  the  night,  the  committee 
agreeing  that  the  essentials  of  entertainment  could 
be  reduced  to  three  —  thrills,  the  spectacular  and 
laughter. 

In  their  consideration  of  the  thrill  element  they  con- 
cluded that  contests  would  take  away  all  the  element  of 
affectation  or  acting  in  the  mind  of  the  participants,  for 
in  a  contest  of  the  kind  adapted  to  the  purpose  of  the 
Round-Up  the  contestant  would  have  to  concentrate 

21 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

his  attention  on  what  he  was  doing  and  not  on  the 
impression  he  was  making  on  the  audience.  So  to 
achieve  this  as  well  as  to  hold  the  attention  of  the 
audience  itself,  it  was  decided  that  as  far  as  possible, 
all  the  elements  which  went  ^o  make  up  the  Old  West 
were  to  be  translated  into  competitive  form. 

In  consideration  of  the  spectacular  element  they 
decided  that  the  proper  landscape  effect  and  setting  was 
the  primary  consideration.  A  small  gully,  a  remnant 
of  the  river  bed,  was  left  unfilled,  which  really  pre- 
vented anything  being  built  directly  in  front  of  the 
Indian  camp  and  gave  a  sunken  landscape  foreground 
from  which  the  Indian  camp  could  be  seen.  Next,  by 
leaving  the  back  stretch  of  the  track  free  from  bleach- 
ers and  filling  this  in  with  mounted  cowboys,  these 
hundreds  of  horsemen  in  colored  shirts,  kerchiefs  and 
garb  produced  a  magnificent  spectacle  as  seen  across 
from  the  grandstand  with  the  Indian  tepees  and  the 
cottonwoods  for  a  stage  setting,  framed  by  the  golden 
hills  of  Oregon  behind.  The  climax  of  this  spectacle 
was  the  great  number  of  cowboys  and  Indians  in  the 
arena  in  serpentine  and  other  convolutions,  terminat- 
ing in  a  great  charge  across  it,  almost  into  the  laps  of 
the  spectators — it  hit  them  in  the  face  with  over- 
whelming numbers. 

Laughter,  strange  as  it  may  seem  in  the  humor-lov- 
ing West,  was  the  hardest  element  of  all  to  handle. 
It  was  impossible  to  figure  out  any  comedy  that  would 
not  be  produced  at  the  expense  of  the  naturalness  and 
historic  quality  which  above  all  they  decided  to  retain, 
and  which  above  all  must  be  retained  as  the  vital  ele- 
ment in  the  show.  They  wisely  decided  they  would 
not  make  any  deliberate  attempt  to  plant  comedy,  and 
that  they  would  leave  it  to  accidental  incidents. 

22 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

Thus  the  fundamental  and  basic  asset  of  the  show 
was  its  psychological  verity.  But  its  success  could 
not  possibly  be  assured,  unless  there  was  a  spirit  and 
community  interest  back  of  it.  So  its  organizers 
wisely  aimed  to  make  everybody  feel  himself  a  part  of 
the  show.  This  spirit  exists  in  both  grandstand  and 
bleachers  and  in  town  as  well,  and  is  contagious  to  both 
the  contestants  and  visitors.  Everybody  in  Pendleton 
begins  a  week  before  the  Round-Up  to  bring  in  their 
saddle  horses  from  the  ranges  and  don  their  ranch 
clothes  to  swell  the  mounted  contingent,  both  in  the 
parade  and  in  the  great  spectacle  of  the  arena. 

And  here  are  the  two  feature  results — the  feeling  of 
community  spirit  in  townsman  and  visitor,  and  particu- 
larly the  fact  that  the  cowboy  and  Indian  consider  the 
celebration  as  their  own :  the  spectators  are  incidental, 
they  do  it  mostly  for  their  own  satisfaction.  And  if 
the  future  Round-Up  committees  and  the  people  of 
Pendleton  hold  fast  to  these  guiding  principles  which 
the  primal  organizers  and  time  have  proved  out,  the 
Round-Up  and  its  spirit  will  endure,  as  long  as  there  is 
a  bad  horse  to  ride  and  a  cowboy  to  ride  it,  a  steer  to 
be  roped  and  a  "boy"  to  rope  it,  or  an  Indian  with  a 
war-bonnet  and  a  squaw  to  make  it. 

The  "Round-Up"  means  the  gathering  together  of 
the  men,  women — yes,  and  animals  too — of  the  ranges 
for  a  three-days'  festival  of  cowboy  sports  and  pas- 
times. It  is  to  that  section  of  the  West  what  the  county 
fair  is  to  certain  sections  of  the  East,  but  with  this  dif- 
ference :  the  seventy  thousand  people  who  journey  to 
the  little  city  of  Pendleton,  with  its  seven  thousand 
population,  are  drawn  from  all  quarters  of  the  United 
States,  Canada,  and  Mexico,  and  even  from  across  the 
oceans. 

23 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

One  may  well  ask  why  this  little  through-track  town 
draws  such  a  stream  of  humanity  on  such  a  pilgrimage, 
and  holds  them  in  a  tense  grip  for  three  days  and  then 
sends  them  away  satisfied  and  enthusiastic.  First  and 
foremost,  the  Round-Up  is  clean,  pure  sport,  and 
makes  its  appeal  to  the  thousands  who  journey  to  Pen- 
dleton every  year  to  see  those  three  primary  attractions 
of  a  frontier  exhibition — the  riding  of  a  bucking  horse, 
the  roping  of  a  wild  steer,  and  the  bulldogging  of  a 
Texas  longhorn. 

Pendleton  is  in  the  heart  of  the  range  country  and 
was  once  an  outfitting  station  on  the  Umatilla  stage 
route.  Thus  it  is  particularly  adapted  in  location,  set- 
ting, and  understanding,  but  perhaps  preeminently 
through  its  united  effort,  to  give  full  measure  and  to 
eliminate  graft.  In  fact,  although  $1,500,000  has  been 
spent  by  the  Round-Up  attendance  and  $35,000  cleared 
as  profits,  this  community  play  of  the  West  is  not  a 
money-making  scheme,  staged  as  it  is  by  a  volunteer 
organization  and  paying  neither  salaries  nor  dividends. 
The  directors  are  leading  business  men  of  the  city, 
many  of  whom  are  also  ranchers,  who  serve  without 
pay;  all  citizens  cooperate  with  tliem,  keep  open-house, 
and  outdo  themselves  in  extending  hospitality  to 
visitors. 

Prior  to  the  first  Round-Up  the  committee  had  hard 
work  convincing  the  railroads  that  it  was  necessary  to 
plan  ahead  for  accommodations,  but  after  the  Pendle- 
tonians  got  behind  it,  the  interest  spread  like  a  prairie 
fire.  There  was  such  a  demand  that  the  railroads 
themselves  began  to  get  uneasy  and  sent  their  agent  a 
number  of  times  to  Pendleton  to  advise  them  that  the 
crowd  would  be  so  great  that  Pendleton  itself  did  not 
know  what  they  were  up  against.     Didn't  they? 

24 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

But  here  again  the  loyal  and  efficient  backing  of  Sam 
Jackson  bore  fruit,  for  through  the  Oregon  Journal 
he  organized  parties,  himself  guaranteeing  the  first 
train,  and  then  through  the  splendid  cooperation  of  the 
railroad  and  Pendleton  established  the  custom  of  or- 
ganizing parties,  from  Portland  and  elsewhere.  These 
round  trip  tickets  covered  all  accommodations  includ- 
ing meals — not  only  while  on  the  journey  but  while  in 
Pendleton,  —  reserved  seats  in  both  the  Round-Up 
grandstand  and  Happy  Canyon,  the  night  show.  Visi- 
tors came  on  special  trains  which  were  parked  on 
sidings  in  the  heart  of  the  town  in  full  view  of  the 
Main  Street  and  the  Westward  Ho  Parade.  Here 
water,  sewage,  electric  light  and  telephone  connections 
were  at  once  installed  in  the  cars. 

After  the  first  Round-Up  it  was  Sam  Jackson  who 
realized  the  underlying  spirit  which  has  made  for  the 
success  of  the  Round-Up,  and  expressed  it  so  clearly 
when  asked  by  the  first  president  what  he  thought  of 
the  show,  in  the  reply,  "You  haven't  got  a  show  here; 
it's  an  institution." 

"What  is  done  with  the  profits?"  There  is  a  man 
who,  like  many  others  in  the  throng,  wears  a  red  badge. 
On  it  letters  in  gold  read  :  "Ask  me,  I  live  here."  He 
will  tell  you  that  the  profits  go  to  the  city  of  Pendleton 
for  the  next  year's  Round-Up,  but,  principally  for  the 
benefit  and  improvement  of  this  progressive  and  at- 
tractive city,  primarily  for  the  making  of  the  city  park 
which  includes  the  Round-Up  Grounds. 

Moreover,  when  the  great  call  came  to  stem  and  hurl 
back  that  colossal  martial  Juggernaut,  the  vehicle  of 
that  Organized  State  of  Mind  called  Germany,  which 
threatened  to  quash  the  spirit  of  humanity  and  lay 
waste  the  fruits  of  world  democracy  of  which  Amer- 

25 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

ica  is  the  outstanding  symbol,  then  the  spirit  of  the  peo- 
ple of  little  Pendleton  and  hereabouts,  laid  in  the  lap  of 
Liberty  at  her  first  call  over  one  million  golden  dollars 
and  consecrated  their  Round-Up  to  the  Nation  to 
which  it  belongs  and  poured  its  proceeds  into  the  cof- 
fers of  the  American  Red  Cross.  Thus,  little  wonder 
is  it  that,  altho  the  Round-Up  is  essentially  a  local  insti- 
tution, a  civic  possession  just  as  much  as  is  the  school 
system  or  fire  department,  it  is  more  than  that.  Be- 
cause of  its  significance  and  because  of  its  spirit  it  be- 
longs to  all  Umatilla  County  and  the  whole  state  of 
Oregon,  and  has  become  a  part  of  the  great  American 
play-book. 

They  were  driving  cattle  out  of  Pendleton  as  late  as 
1888.  From  there  they  were  driven  across  Idaho  to 
Wyoming  and  some  clear  to  Montana,  in  herds  of  a 
few  thousand,  where  they  were  sold  to  some  of  the  big 
outfits.  The  biggest  outfit  was  Ryan  &  Long.  There 
were  also  Ray  &  Steadman,  the  Swan  Company,  a  big 
English  concern  which  came  West,  and  others.  These 
big  outfits  would  buy  from  ten  to  twenty  thousand 
head  of  beef  cattle  from  Pendleton,  by  which  is  meant 
cattle  old  enough  and  heavy  enough  to  sell. 

Then  the  country  changed  over  from  a  cattle  to  a 
wheat  country,  and  changed  pretty  quickly.  But  still 
quite  a  lot  of  sheep  are  run,  and  there  are  still  a  few 
small  herds  left,  while  horse  ranges  may  be  found  in  the 
Crooked  River  and  Harney  Valley  country ;  and  there 
is  also  a  lot  of  open  country  around  Camas  Prairie, 
where  the  Indians  used  to  dig  their  camas,  and  from 
the  Pendleton  point  of  view  this  means  the  region  be- 
ginning about  twenty  miles  south  and  running  to  the 
Nevada  line.  While  this  country  is  farmed  some,  it 
really  is  range  country  for  three  hundred  miles. 

26 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

Any  time  during  the  year  one  may  see  cowboys, 
ranch  hands,  old-timers  and  Indians  about  the  streets 
of  Pendleton,  but  a  few  days  before  the  Round-Up 
Pendleton  has  all  the  appearance  of  a  cow  town. 
Chapped  and  booted  cowboys,  riding  that  inimitable 
close  saddle,  pass  frequently  to  the  jingle  of  chain  and 
spur,  or  loll  in  picturesque  groups  at  the  sidewalk 
edges,  where,  in  characteristic,  well-modulated  voices, 
the  relative  merits  of  "bucker"  and  "buckaroo"  are 
discussed  at  length. 

The  "get  up"  of  the  American  cowboy  comes  the 
nearest  of  any  we  have,  to  being  a  national  costume  and 
is  by  far  the  most  picturesque,  as  well  as  practical,  from 
Stetson  to  spurs,  for  like  most  national  costumes  there 
is  a  practical  reason  for  every  appurtenance  of  it.  His 
broad-brimmed  hat  with  its  soft  color,  casting  a  softer 
shadow  beneath,  has  become  the  crown  of  these  mon- 
archs  of  the  range  and  is  usually  his  first  consideration 
— his  hat,  which  must  be  of  a  character  to  protect  his 
eyes  against  scorching  sun  and  driving  rain,  is  often 
ornamented  with  a  woven  silver  star  or  circled  with  a 
multi-colored  horsehair  band  of  Indian  workmanship, 
or  with  a  leather  strap,  black  and  silver  studded.  The 
sombreros  vary  in  styles  and  shapes,  all  of  which  have 
their  names,  and  the  method  of  creasing,  pointing, 
crushing  or  rolling  the  brim  varies  with  the  locality 
or  with  the  individual  whim  of  the  owner ;  but  in  what- 
ever shape  or  form,  this  characteristically  American 
headgear  is  one  of  the  most  becoming  and  practical 
types  of  hats  to  be  found. 

The  cowboy's  loose  flannel  shirt  with  turn-down 
collar  is  warm  and  comfortable,  and  protected  at  the 
wrists  by  long  leather  cuffs  of  brown  or  black,  tight- 
fitting  at  the  wrists,  which  keep  the  wind  out  of  his 

27 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

sleeves  and  protect  his  wrists  and  forearm  from  bein?^ 
burnt  with  a  rope.  His  chapps,  from  chapparcros, 
the  leather  over-breeches,  were  first  worn  to  protect 
clothes  and  legs  against  the  thorny  chapparal  or  brush 
of  the  southwest,  and  the  old-time  fringes,  or  more 
modern  broad  wings,  shed  rain — as  do  the  more  dis- 
tinctively Northwest  type  of  angora  goat's  hair  chaps 
— and  likewise  keep  the  wearer  warm. 

His  boots,  often  fancifully  stitched  with  colored 
thread,  their  tops  slit  front  and  back,  with  heels  high 
enough  to  inspire  the  envy  of  a  little  French  griscttc, 
serve  the  purpose  of  preventing  his  being  hung  up  in 
his  stirrup.  His  dull-pointed  clanking  spurs  are  for 
emergency  on  the  range,  and  whether  they  should  be 
worn,  shanks  up  or  down,  depends  on  the  part  of  the 
country  he  is  from  and  is  one  of  the  moot  questions  of 
the  West.     About  Pendleton  the  downs  have  it. 

That  fluttering,  shimmering  thing  of  color,  the  ker- 
chief, is  most  characteristic  of  the  Round-Up.  You 
will  notice  that  its  small  end  is  tied  with  the  loop  worn 
in  front — just  the  reverse  from  a  sailor's  kerchief — 
but  there's  a  reason.  Run  cattle  in  the  choking  dust 
of  a  corral  or  follow  them  in  the  blinding  dust  storms 
of  the  range,  and  your  kerchief  will  soon  be  drawn 
tight  over  the  bridge  of  your  nose. 

It  is  on  Saturday  nights,  or  more  especially  during 
the  Round-Up  when  the  boys  ride  in  from  the  ranches, 
that  you  see  them  outfitting  in  the  high-grade  shops  of 
the  city,  which  carry  for  this  occasion  particularly  gala- 
colored  shirts  of  sheening  silk  or  rich  velvet,  and  stud- 
ded on  collar,  front  and  forearm  with  pearl  buttons  as 
flat  and  big  as  dollars,  and  kerchiefs  which  would  make 
any  self-respecting  rainbow  pale  with  envy. 

On  the  corner  a  big-sombreroed,  swarthy  Mexican 

28 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

puffs  silently  on  his  cigarillo;  moccasin-footed  Uma- 
tilla Indians  pigeon-toe  along,  trailed  by  heavy-set  pa- 
poose-bearing squaws  and  beautiful  daughters,  paus- 
ing before  the  allurements  in  the  display  windows. 
Among  the  fancy  and  useful  objects,  naturally  the 
beautiful  blankets  and  shawls  make  the  greatest  appeal 
not  only  to  the  passing  Indian  woman,  but  to  the  white. 
Altho  these  are  of  local  manufacture  they  find  their 
markets  in  the  shops  of  Edinburgh  and  the  bazaars 
of  Peking. 

An  occasional  cowgirl,  in  fringed  buckskin  or  riding 
costume,  strolls  by  with  that  unobtrusiveness  which  is 
a  salient  characteristic  of  these  range  women.  Any 
reader  of  men  sees,  however,  beneath  this  natural  care- 
free poise  a  glint  in  the  eye  which  tells  of  a  self-control 
and  fearless  courage  that  is  also  capable  of  reckless 
daring. 

The  harness  and  saddlery  stores  naturally  attract. 
Worm  through  that  crowd  screening  the  show  win- 
dows of  a  big  harness  and  saddlery  store — there  where 
it's  densest, — and  you  will  see  the  most  coveted  prize 
of  the  whole  show,  the  Round-Up  saddle  which  will  go 
to  the  winner  of  the  cowboys'  bucking  contest  for  the 
championship  of  the  world.  It  is  exquisitely  hand- 
tooled  from  horn  and  cantel  to  skirts  and  tapideros; 
but  that's  not  all, — it's  artistically  studded  and  inlaid 
at  certain  points  with  big  silver  medallions;  this  year 
they  happen  to  be  very  finely  etched  discs,  last  year  they 
were  silver  butterflies. 

"That's  sure  worth  five  hundred  bucks,  just  as  it  sez 
on  the  card,  with  all  that  sculpturin'  'n'  everything," 
remarks  the  new  comer. 

"You  tell  'em,  stranger,  that's  branding  it,"  chimes 
in  "Red"  Parker,  and  he  ought  to  know  for  he  rode  in 

29 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

for  it  last  year.  "But  say,"  he  continued,  "There's 
more  than  one  kind  'o  strings  ter  that  saddle.  There's 
four  hundred  and  fifty  bucks  and  a  fancy  plaster 
hitched  to  it  ter  put  on  yer  wall  if  yer  don't  need  it  ter 
take  yer  soreness  out.  The  next  feller  gits  two  hun- 
dred bucks  and  the  third  an  even  hundred." 

"Ugh!  Hi-yu-skookum  saddle,"  grunted  old  Chief 
Little  Hawk  with  a  grin. 

Those  two  sturdy  buckaroos  beside  the  drinking 
fountain  are  Jim  Roach  of  Bell  Cow  Canyon  and  Bert 
Kelly  of  Walla  Walla,  both  champions  among  the 
early  contestants  who  helped  to  make  the  Round-Up  a 
success.  Jim  Roach  is  the  star  maverick  race  roper. 
There  is  Ella  Lazinka,  who  finished  in  the  grand  finals 
one  year  in  the  cowgirls'  relay  race,  though  a  large 
fence  splinter  had  torn  her  leg  in  the  second  lap.  She 
will  be  at  her  high-school  lessons  the  Monday  after 
the  Round-Up. 

When  the  stranger  is  not  at  the  "tryouts"  and  elim- 
ination contests  he  will  find  much  of  interest  in  the 
bookshops,  photographers  and  other  splendid  stores 
in  the  center  of  the  city;  or  on  the  way  to  the  iron 
works,  he  can  look  over  the  splendid  big  stores  of 
agricultural  implements,  tractors  or  farm  machinery, 
see  how  the  Indian  design  blankets  are  made  at  the 
woolen  mills,  or  inspect  the  great  flour  mills  which 
hum  their  grinding  night  and  day.  Pendleton  is  not 
only  the  focal  point  in,  and  county  seat  of  one  of  the 
greatest  wheat  countries  of  the  United  States,  but  is 
the  great  emporium  for  trade  for  much  of  Eastern 
Oregon. 

When  the  call  for  men  to  help  their  country  in  the 
war  against  autocracy  came,  Pendleton  said,  "Let's 
go!"     When  the  news  spread  over  the  range  country 

30 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

that  a  troop  of  cowboy  cavalry  was  to  be  organized  to 
whip  the  Kaiser  and  his  ranch  hands,  of  course  the 
cowboys  "saddled  on"  and  came  riding  in  from  the 
Blue  Mountains  and  the  John  Day  country,  some  cover- 
ing over  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles. 

The  first  move  made  to  secure  this  cavalry  troop  was 
by  Dell  Blancett;  but  our  government  did  not  move 
fast  enough  for  Dell,  and  he  was  shortly  on  his  way 
"over  there"  with  the  Canadian  cavalry. 

The  troop,  like  the  Round-Up,  was  promptly  organ- 
ized through  the  cooperation  of  leading  cowboys,  busi- 
ness men  of  Pendleton  and  ranchers.  Probably  that 
company  of  a  hundred,  hardy,  courageous  Umatilla 
County  cowboys — every  one  of  them  could  ride  and 
shoot — was  the  greatest  rough-riding  contingent  ever 
organized  into  the  United  States  army. 

Lee  Caldwell,  the  greatest  rider  of  bucking  horses  in 
the  West  and  the  second  man  to  enlist,  was  elected 
captain.  James  F.  Cook,  who  had  served  as  sergeant 
of  Troop  A  on  the  Mexican  border,  was  appointed 
First  Lieutenant;  Marshall  Spell,  who  had  served  in 
old  Company  L  in  Pendleton,  was  Second  "Lieuy."  Eu- 
gene Walters,  top  sergeant,  and  other  members  who 
had  had  some  military  experience,  were  appointed  "non- 
coms,"  over  as  fine  a  looking  lot  of  horsemen  as  ever 
sat  saddles,  but  the  rawest  kind  of  recruits. 

Roll  call  mustered  famous  names  in  Round-Up  an- 
nals, with  which  you  will  be  familiar  after  you  have 
seen  the  great  show.  There  was  Ben  Corbett,  one  of 
the  first  to  sign  up,  all-round  cowboy  and  champion 
relay  and  Roman  rider,  a  former  top-sergeant  in 
the  regular  cavalry,  but  who  later  transferred;  Frank 
Cable,  former  buUdogger,  was  stable  sergeant;  there 
was  Tracy  Lane,  the  cowboy  poet  and  songster,  and 

31 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

one  of  the  greatest  horse-gentlers  in  the  country,  who 
with  "Jock"  Coleman,  cowboy,  ranch-hand  and  Scotch 
comedian,  made  a  top-notch  pair  of  entertainers. 
There,  too,  were  CharHe  Runyan,  who  has  ridden  at 
nearly  every  Round-Up;  Leslie  McCubbins,  a  well- 
known  rider,  and  many  others. 

By  the  middle  of  July  the  troop  was  mobilized,  with 
the  Happy  Canyon  dance-hall  as  their  temporary  quar- 
ters. The  strenuous  daily  routine  of  foot  drill  was 
pretty  hard  on  many  of  the  cowboys,  unused  to  walk- 
ing; but  the  big  blisters  didn't  lessen  their  enthusiasm. 
It  wasn't,  however,  the  easiest  thing  to  make  all 
of  these  individualists  see  at  once  the  necessity  of 
exactitude  in  the  method  of  drill  and  obedience  to 
orders. 

Many  of  them  figured  that,  give  them  a  good  horse 
and  a  six-shooter,  they'd  undertake  to  ride  into  Berlin. 
If  it  was  not  necessary  to  get  the  Kaiser  and  Von 
Hindenburg  dead,  why,  they'd  rope  'em!  But  they 
sure  could  not  figure  out  why  they  had  to  stand  guard 
and  drill  on  foot  when  they  went  into  the  cavalry. 

"Aboot  face!"  commanded  Sergeant  Coleman,  who 
had  served  his  time  with  a  "Ladies  from  Hell"  regi- 
ment before  the  war. 

Jess  Brunn,  a  tall,  finely  set-up  type  of  cowboy,  later 
as  snappy  a  soldier  as  there  was  in  the  outfit,  could  not 
seem  to  connect.  Time  and  again  he  tried,  but  the 
high  heels  of  his  boots  seemed  as  rebellious  as  their 
owner. 

"Place  th'  toe  of  yer-r-r-r-r-r-ight  foot  behind  and 
to  the  left  of  the  heel  of — " 

This  was  a  little  more  than  Jess  could  stand.  It  was 
the  most  sudden  breaking  of  ranks  the  outfit  had  seen, 
when  the  strings  of  control  of  Jess's  otherwise  quiet 

Z2 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

demeanor  snapped,  and  like  a  mountain  lion  he  sprang 
from  the  line,  fists  up  and  clenched. 

"Look  here !     I'm  man  enough  to  lick  any  

man  in  this 

outfit,  or  any  officer  either,  that  tries  to  tell  me  how 
I've  got  to  turn  around." 

Orders  to  entrain  for  Camp  Withycombe  at  Clacka- 
mas came.  Portland,  always  such  a  loyal  friend  to 
Pendleton  and  the  Round-Up,  seemed  to  turn  out  en 
masse  as  the  outfit  went  through,  while  word  that  the 
Pendleton  bunch  was  arriving,  set  the  entire  camp  agog. 
But  if  they  expected  a  slicked-up,  uniformed  nurse- 
maids-to-horses  troop  to  march  with  eyes  front  and 
120  steps  to  the  minute,  they  had  a  surprise — 
for  of  all  the  picturesque,  care-free,  self-contained 
contingents  that  ever  pulled  into  camp  this  "wild 
bunch"  was  the  wooliest  outfit.  There  was  no  senti- 
ment lost  in  their  make-up,  although  there  was  a  lot 
to  be  found  in  it. 

The  only  uniform  they  swung,  was  that  of  their 
calling.  Their  broad-brimmed  sombreros  with  leather 
strap  or  braided  band  of  horsehair  went  a-wobbling 
and  a-milling  by  like  a  herd  of  steers;  red  or  other 
colored  shirts  and  kerchiefs  with  heavy  trousers,  most 
of  them  tucked  into  high-heeled  boots,  covered  their 
lean,  hard-muscled  figures  asthey  clumped  along  through 
the  company  streets.  A  few  wore  chapps,  but  under 
the  coat  of  almost  every  man- Jack  of  them  there 
slightly  bulged  the  handle  of  a  .45,  concealed  like  a 
bustle  on  behind. 

It  was  a  hard,  he-man  bunch,  but  no  harder  than  the 
big  barrel  of  cider  which  headed  the  procession,  flanked 
on  either  side  by  the  captain  and  lieutenants  respective- 
ly, followed  by  the  thirsty  gang. 

33 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Then  came  the  weeks  of  whipping  into  shape. 
Rifles  had  been  issued  but  two  days,  when  they  got 
some  ammunition — heaven  knows  where  they  rustled 
it.  Suddenly  the  entire  camp  was  greeted  with  a  fusil- 
lade which  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  Boche  bar- 
rage, only  to  find  that  Troop  D  was  tossing  into  the  air 
from  the  middle  of  their  company  street,  tin  cans,  bot- 
tle-necks and  nickels,  and  shooting  them  on  bets — hit- 
ting 'em,  too. 

The  other  companies  stood  in  wholesome  awe  and 
respect  of  the  men  of  Troop  D.  This  feeling  was 
somewhat  crudely  expressed,  perhaps,  by  one  recruit 
from  a  little  jerk-water  town  on  the  other  side  of  the 
state  line  to  a  new  recruit  in  his  company.  "Don't  get 
mixed  up  with  any  of  that  Pendleton  bunch.  They 
don't  fight  with  their  fists, — they  just  shoot." 

Well,  it  was  not  a  bad  "rep"  to  have,  as  none  of  the 
Pendleton  outfit  denied  it — and  there  were  a  few  who 
did  not  have  to.  Even  nickels  flipped  high  in  the  air 
dropped  plugged,  before  the  unerring  aim  of  many  of 
these  men.  But,  probably,  no  more  marvelous  shot 
was  found  in  the  entire  United  States  army  than  "Tex 
Winchester,"  as  Howard  L.  Knutson  was  called.  He 
was  an  old  ranger  and  the  quickest  on  the  draw  in  the 
outfit.  Their  confidence  in  Tex,  as  well  as  their  nerve, 
was  shown  when  any  one  of  Troop  D  would  stand 
with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth  and  let  "Tex"  shoot  oflF 
the  ashes.  The  climax  of  his  remarkable  feat  was 
reached,  though,  when  he  did  the  same  trick  with  his 
front  sight  covered  with  a  piece  of  paper,  slipped  on 
the  muzzle  of  his  rifle. 

Perhaps  the  hardest  nut  for  the  saddle-warming  out- 
fit to  crack,  was  why  they  had  to  drill  on  foot  when 
they  went  into  the  cavalry.   Charlie  Runyan  never  (lid 

34 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

quite  figure  it  out.  He'd  never  walked  before,  and 
until  he  was  shod  with  the  Munson  last,  he  was  foot- 
sore and  worn  down  to  the  quick,  marching  up  and 
down  in  riding  boots. 

One  night  along  came  Major  Charles  McDonald, 
courageous,  loyal  McDonald,  one  of  the  first  of  Ore- 
gon's sons  to  make  the  great  sacrifice.  Runyan,  seeing 
him  approach  in  the  darkness,  gripped  his  shooting 
iron. 

"Hell!    Look  who's  here!"  says  Charlie. 

There  was  dead  silence  for  a  minute.  Then  follow- 
ed an  introductory  calling-down,  which  we  will  omit. 

"What  were  your  orders?" 

"Well,  sir — I  was  told  to  say  'Halt!  Who  goes 
there!'" 

"Well,  you  didn't.  You  said,  'Hell !  Look  who's 
here !'  " 

"Beg  pardon,  sir.  I  meant  to  say,  Halt!  Who 
goes  there !' " 

Runyan,  in  many  ways  the  life  of  the  company, 
survived  the  above  mentioned  ordeal  with  the  major, 
to  come  near  not  surviving  the  deadly  German  gas. 

The  soldier  timber  of  this  outfit  as  soon  as  they  had 
barked  a  little  of  the  rough  off,  proved  to  be  sec- 
ond to  none  and  Troop  D,  3d  Oregon  Cavalry,  was 
later  turned  into  one  of  the  most  efficient  batter- 
ies— the  148th  Field  Artillery.  They  swung  their  155 
millimeter  G.  P.  F.'s  into  position  at  Chateau  Thierry. 
Over  the  shady  roads  of  fair  France,  beyond  the 
Hindenburg  line,  along  the  shell-pockmarked  roads 
and  landscape  blighted  by  the  Teuton  scourge,  their 
guns,  limbers  and  trucks  rattled  their  way  to  skilful 
and  determined  driving.  The  ruined  walls  of  St. 
Mihiel,  the  Woods  of  Belleau  and  the  Valley  of  the 

35 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Argonne  echoed  to  their  old  slogans,  "Powder  River" 
and  "Let  'er  buck."  Every  American  regiment 
within  their  line  of  march,  as  well  as  the  French,  be- 
came well  acquainted  with  this  little  bunch  of  Eastern 
Oregon  cowboys  and  their  slogan,  and  more  particu- 
larly with  the  spirit  of  the  West  and  the  America 
which  they  symbolized. 

On  every  article  of  furniture  of  that  outfit,  guns, 
trucks,  cases,  was  painted  the  Round-Up's  epic  slogan 
and  graced  too  with  a  picture  of  that  Pegasus  of  the 
West  and  his  rider — the  cowboy  on  a  bucking  horse. 

At  the  end  of  the  great  drive,  this  outfit  was  cited 
twice  by  the  French  government  and  once  by  our  own. 
Back  in  Pendleton,  as  quickly  as  they  could  corral  their 
range  togs,  they  dove  again  into  their  chapps  and  high- 
heeled  boots  and  dispersed  to  the  ranges;  and  true  to 
cowboy  nature  left  other  bards  to  sing  their  praises. 

Pendleton  has  a  way  of  its  own  in  extending  its 
hospitality  in  receiving  its  city's  visitors,  and  William 
McAdoo  and  his  party  will  remember  for  some  time 
the  long  line  of  chapped  and  booted  mounted  Pendle- 
tonians  drawn  up  on  the  sidewalk  at  the  railroad  sta- 
tion to  receive  him  when  his  train  pulled  in  to  the 
Round-Up.  He  was  promptly  adorned  with  full  cow- 
boy regalia  and  a  splendid  mount.  In  these  he  made  a 
great  hit  in  the  Arena  when,  instead  of  the  conven- 
tional rocking-horse  lope  of  the  average  dignitary,  to 
the  surprise  of  the  crowd  he  gave  his  horse  free  rein 
like  a  real  cowboy.  He  will  remember  too  how  they 
boosted  the  well-known  Cheyenne  prima  donna,  big 
Charlie  Irwin,  up  on  a  cart  while  he  shook  his  ropes 
off,  from  his  famous  world's  championship  love  dit- 
tie  Alfalfa  Hay,  and  sang  it  in  his  droll,  serious  man- 
ner to  the  tune  of  "Bury  My  Bones  in  Alcohol," 

36 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

"Alfalfa  hay,  alfalfa  hay,  alfalfa  hay,  alfalfa  hay, 
"You're  the  sweetest  weed  that  grows,  alfalfa  hay." 

The  chorus  w^as  equally  touching : 

"Alfalfa  hay,  alfalfa  hay,  alfalfa  hay,  alfalfa  hay, 
"You're  the  sweetest  weed  that  grows,  alfalfa  hay." 

Bill  will  also  remember  "Slim"  Allen,  the  tall,  husky 
cowpuncher  who  measured  over  a  couple  of  inches 
taller  than  McAdoo  himself.  When  Slim  had  got 
acquainted  a  bit  he  rustled  up  to  him  and  seized  him 
by  the  arm,  saying : 

"I'm  going  to  whip  hell  out  of  you  this  afternoon!" 

Pendleton  will  always  remember  McAdoo's  reply, 
when,  looking  his  man  in  the  eye  he  quietly  replied, 
"Well,  we  wnll  see  about  that  later." 

But  the  "McAdoo"  Slim  referred  to  was  the  horse 
named  in  honor  of  the  distinguished  visitor  whom  he 
had  drawn  to  ride  in  the  bucking  contest — which  to 
Bill's  satisfaction,  in  about  five  bucks  landed  his  rider 
in  Round-Up  park. 

Just  as  in  the  Round-Up  arena  the  events  portray 
more  especially  the  work  of  the  range,  and  in  Happy 
Canyon,  the  night  show  is  shown  the  life  of  the  fron- 
tier town,  so  the  Westward  Ho  Parade,  as  it  wends  its 
way  along  the  pavements  of  little  Pendleton  on  the 
Saturday  or  last  morning  of  each  annual  Round-Up, 
presents  a  panorama  which  epitomizes  the  Old  West — 
the  Old  West  on  the  move.  Led  by  the  mounted  cow- 
boy band,  with  the  Governor  of  Oregon  usually  in  the 
place  of  honor,  icame  the  president  and  members  of 
the  Round-Up  committee,  clean-cut  ranchmen  and 
stockmen  types,  heading  the  parade.   These  committee- 

Z1 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

men  have  turned  their  attention  also  to  manufacture, 
merchandise,  banking  and  law,  and  are  the  brains  of 
this  marvelous  passion  play  of  the  West.  Then  come 
the  range  types  that  delight  the  painter  and  molder  of 
clay,  vigorous,  keen  eyed,  modest,  and  primitively 
natural  and  likable.  You  see  all  the  familiar  charac- 
ters you  have  become  acquainted  with  at  the  tryouts 
or  seen  in  the  contests. 

There,  too,  you  see  the  old  time  West  literally 
stalking  in  the  flesh.  The  floats  of  the  hunter,  the 
pioneer,  the  Indian,  the  gambler  and  others  symbolize 
its  epic  episodes.  There  go  the  oxcart,  the  chuck- 
wagon,  the  freighter,  the  prairie  schooner  and  the  In- 
dian travois.  No  advertising,  no  autos  or  any  modern 
innovations  are  allowed  to  mar  the  historic  pictur- 
esquesness  of  this  revival  of  the  past,  then  come  the 
Indians  in  a  swirl  of  color  and  trappings  which  sight 
is  alone  worth  your  long  journey. 

That  heavy-set  packer  with  the  long  string  of  pack 
mules  is  Bill  Russell.  Bill's  hospitable  ranch  home 
nestles  invitingly  under  a  grove  of  trees  just  this  side 
of  Walla  Walla.  The  old  hide  packs,  so  well  "hitched" 
on,  have  a  history,  too — they  are  what  the  Indians 
didn't  want  or  didn't  have  time  to  take  when  they  were 
left  strewn  along  the  slopes  of  the  Little  Big  Horn 
after  the  Custer  massacre.  Bill's  father  was  with  Reno 
at  the  time  they  gathered  some  of  them  up,  so  here 
they  are. 

Anyone  would  know  by  the  way  that  old-timer 
maneuvers  the  reins  of  one  of  the  stagecoach  outfits 
that  it  is  but  second  nature,  and  so  it  is  to  old  Dave 
Horn  who  has  handled  reins,  brake  and  lash  over  the 
trail  on  his  daily  runs  from  Cayuse  to  Umatilla  in  the 
old  days,  and  has  been  recognized  for  years  as  the 

38 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

best  six-line  skinner  that  ever  drove  over  the  Blue 
Mountains.  Along  behind,  trudges  gray-grizzled, 
bearded  Frank  Beagle,  another  old-timer  and  pros- 
pector, his  burro  loaded  with  the  same  outfit  he  panned 
and  dug  with  across  a  span  of  years. 

I  rode  beside  an  old  scout,  H.  C.  (Hank)  Cap- 
linger,  and  somehow  —  just  by  fate  perhaps  —  old 
"Hank"  was  left  out  of  history  along  with  Peg  Leg 
Smith.  We  halted  for  a  spell  for  the  line  to  lengthen 
out.  "Yes,  it's  a  Dutch  name,"  old  Hank  told  me, 
"but  I  guess  I'm  Irish." 

"When  did  you  come  out?" 

"Crossed  the  plains  with  an  ox  team  in  '45.  Scouted 
for  the  government  and  fit  in  Indian  scraps;  two  in 
Montana,  others  in  Southern  Oregon,  Northern  Cali- 
fornia, and  in  the  Pitt  River  country.  That's  where  I 
was  wounded.  Of  all  the  damned  renegades  that 
crowd  was  the  worst.  I  was  with  one  hundred  and 
thirty  Warm  Spring  Oregon  Indians  and  Donald 
McKay,  a  half-breed  ranger  and  scout,  and  by  God, 
the  best  trailer  that  ever  started  out.  Run  'em  for  over 
two  and  a  half  months  through  the  mountains.  Run 
'em  down  and  got  every  mother's  son  of  'em.  And 
scalped  every  one  of  'em,  too.  Been  buckarooing  in 
every  country  where  a  white  man  dared  to  go  and 
never  been  arrested  for  stealing  yet.  Most  of  the  time 
I  was  with  Buffalo  Bill,  Kit  Carson  and  Peg  Leg 
Smith,  and  Peg  Leg  Smith  was  the  gamest  man  in  the 
whole  damn  outfit,  but  he  was  never  writ  up." 

Then  the  contingent  moved  on  through  the  crowds. 
Yes,  there  is  many  a  hero  of  the  West,  unheralded,  be- 
cause "he  never  was  writ  up." 


39 


CHAPTER  TWO 

TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

Many  an  old-time  pioneer  of  to-day  of  scarce  four- 
score years,  need  but  close  his  eyes  to  vision  backward 
to  the  time  when  the  star  empire  rested  on  Oregon's  in- 
terminable forests,  flowering,  undulating  prairie  lands 
of  limitless  bunchgrass,  and  on  her  fish-filled  cascad- 
ing streams,  to  trace  through  her  eight  decades  of  ad- 
venturous, romantic,  progressive  story.  This  story  was 
not  a  tale  of  a  contest  with  nature  only,  but  with  men, 
of  law  and  order  against  lawlessness  and  terror — the 
ever-old  story  of  the  frontiers  of  civilization.  These 
sturdy,  self-respecting  pioneers,  settlers  and  mission- 
aries of  Oregon,  ahead  as  they  were  of  territorial  gov- 
ernment, were  a  sufficint  law  unto  themselves  and  it 
is  recorded  that  the  first  decade  of  Oregon  history  was 
without  law-statute  law — and  yet  not  a  crime  was  com- 
mitted in  the  American  settlement.  In  1841,  however, 
the  first  provisional  court  west  of  the  Missouri  River, 
a  probate  court,  was  organized. 

When  that  beckoning  Circe  of  man's  cupidity — gold 
— was  discovered  in  California,  then  in  Oregon,  the 
promise  of  easy  wealth  flooded  the  country  with  out- 
laws— the  gambler,  highwayman,  horse  and  cattle  thief 
and  all-round  bad  man,  while  saloons  and  gambling 
joints  sprang  up  like  mushrooms  in  a  night.     During 

40 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

these  formative  days  when  law  was  flouted  and  defied 
by  these  desperadoes,  many  of  them  gravitated  to  the 
mining  camps  of  Eastern  Oregon.  They  seemed  to  be 
a  conscienceless  type.  Many  were  men  "wanted"  or 
not  wanted  in  the  East;  many  of  them  not  only  made 
highway  robbery  a  profession,  but  openly  boasted  of  it. 

Thus  a  form  of  organized  brigandage  developed. 
No  sheriff  could  bring  in  a  criminal  to  justice  without 
becoming  a  victim  of  the  "gang."  This  order  of 
things  held  sway  and  whole  communities  were  terror- 
ized until  the  law-respecting  citizens  organized  into 
vigilance  committees  and  courts  against  these  outlaws, 
these  law-preservers  being  known  as  "vigilantes."  The 
"short  cut"  was  sometimes  administered  to  some  of 
the  worst  by  way  of  the  "short  end  of  a  halter  rope." 

Among  the  names  written  blackest  in  this  North- 
west story  are  those  of  Romaine  and  his  terrible  band, 
one  of  whom  remarked  to  the  outfit  when  about  to 
swing  for  his  crimes,  "Good-bye,  boys.  I'll  meet  you 
in  hell  in  fifteen  minutes."  There  was  the  famous 
McNab  and  the  notorious  "Hank"  Vaughan  raised  in 
The  Dalles,  who  always  slept  with  gun  in  hand.  It 
was  he  who,  when  fleeing  from  pursuit  with  a  band  of 
horses  he  had  rustled,  killed  the  sheriff  of  Umatilla 
and  wounded  the  deputy. 

Since  then,  there  have  been  and  probably  always  will 
be,  men  who  for  one  reason  or  the  other  live  outside 
the  law.  Those  days  were  days  of  frontier  terrors  in 
which  the  outlaw  outdevilled  the  Indian  and  where  the 
.45  was  often  a  man's  best  friend.  They  were  days, 
too,  of  romance  and  adventure,  a  vestige  of  which  still 
remains  here  and  there  in  the  dying  embers  which 
the  flame  of  conquest  has  left  on  scorched  remnants 
of  a  primitive  frontier. 

41 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Such  were  the  conditions  which  molded  the  stal- 
wart, dauntless  men  who  held  taut  the  reins  of  order 
and  government.  But  perhaps  to  no  one  class  of  men 
can  the  law,  pioneers  and  our  government  ascribe 
greater  tribute  than  to  the  w'estern  sheriff,  watchdog 
of  the  peace  and  upholder  of  justice.  To  the  memory 
of  no  recent  sheriff  can  Oregon,  the  West,  the  United 
States  pay  greater  tribute  than  to  that  of  the  late 
Tilman  D.  Taylor  of  Pendleton,  "Til"  Taylor  to 
Oregon  and  the  Northwest — just  plain  "Til"  to  his 
friends  and  acquaintances.  Not  only  as  sheriff  of 
Umatilla  County  and  as  second  president  of  the 
Round-Up,  which  office  he  held  for  eight  years,  since 
the  first  year  of  its  inception,  but  as  the  outstanding 
figure  among  the  sheriffs  of  the  West  of  to-day, 
Til  Taylor's  character  and  record  is  as  remarkable 
as  it  was  romantic. 

His  career  of  upholding  the  law  began  twenty-two 
years  ago.  The  railroad  had  reached  Pendleton  a  short 
ten  years  before  and  the  country  was  still  in  its  meta- 
morphosis from  stock  ranges  to  wheat  lands.  Pendleton 
was  very  different  from  the  trim  progressive  city  of  to- 
day. It  was  then  a  small  town  of  about  three  thousand 
people.  Like  many  a  western  town  of  that  day,  gam- 
bling houses  were  run  wide  open,  and  there  were  at  one 
time  twenty-seven  saloons.  Those  days  were  a  bit  wild 
and  wooly,  and  the  sheriff  could  walk  the  streets  and 
know  just  what  criminals  were  in  town;  so  when 
something  happened  he  could  almost  pick  the  man  who 
had  committed  the  crime. 

The  horse  thief,  "stick-up  man"  and  "cattle  rustlers" 
were  wary  of  the  late  sheriff,  for  he  had  never  lost  a 
horse  thief  and  could  identify  a  horse  regardless  of  its 
condition.    He  had  an  intuition  that  was  almost  uncan- 

42 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

ny  in  handling  criminals,  and  his  ability  to  spot  men 
with  whom  he  had  come  into  previous  contact,  or  of 
whom  he  had  received  descriptions,  was  exceptional. 

One  remarkable  illustration  of  this  occurred  in  1911. 
Taylor  was  after  a  man  sixty-five  years  of  ageonalocal 
charge,  and  to  identify  him  had  nothing  but  a  photo- 
graph which  he  selected  from  the  files  of  the  Walla 
Walla  penitentiary.  This  picture  was  of  a  man 
twenty  years  old,  and  clean  shaven,  but  proved  to  be 
the  same  man  arrested  forty  years  later  who  had  a 
heavy  growth  of  beard  and  mustache  and  features  con- 
siderably altered. 

His  ability  to  recognize  criminals  was  attributed  to 
his  manner  of  studying  men.  He  had  a  system  of 
observation  of  his  own,  which  was  to  study  carefully 
the  features  of  the  upper  face,  particularly  the  nose, 
eyes  and  ears.  The  application  of  this  can  be  appre- 
ciated in  a  country  where  the  mask  often  consists  of 
a  kerchief  tied  over  the  bridge  of  the  nose  and  whiskers 
were  not  an  uncommon  hirsutian  adornment. 

Three  men  who  broke  jail  in  Pendleton  in  1915  were 
run  down  after  a  twenty  mile  chase  in  the  mountains 
and  captured  single  handed  by  Sheriff  Taylor.  They 
were  drinking  at  a  spring,  when  what  was  their  con- 
sternation to  find  themselves  covered  by  Taylor's  gun 
before  they  had  time  to  draw. 

Out  of  twenty-eight  men  who  broke  jail  from  Uma- 
tilla County,  Sheriff  Taylor  returned  twenty-six  to  the 
same  cells,  while  the  other  two  were  located  elsewhere 
in  the  country,  one  now  being  in  a  penitentiary  in  the 
East.  Over  two  thousand  five  hundred  arrests,  the 
vast  majority  of  which  were  followed  with  convictions, 
and  much  work  in  connection  with  famous  crime 
mysteries,  as  well  as  the  apprehension  and  bringing  to 

43 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

justice  of  many  escaped  convicts  from  eastern  and 
southern  states,  are  credited  to  his  office.  In  fact,  a 
record  of  the  daring  captures  of  this  noted  typical 
sheriff  would  fill  a  volume  with  true  stories,  vying  in 
thrills  with  those  portrayed  on  the  movie  screen  or 
read  in  the  pages  of  Wild  West  magazines. 

One  of  the  most  desperate  episodes  occurred  after 
bank  robbers  had  blown  a  safe  at  Hermiston,  forty 
miles  from  Pendleton,  toward  the  Columbia  River,  to 
which  place  Taylor  immediately  and  unerringly  track- 
ed them,  and  captured  them  single-handed.  While 
holding  the  struggling  prisoner  with  one  hand,  he 
fought  a  revolver  duel  with  the  pal  of  the  prisoner, 
who  first  opened  fire  from  a  telegraph  pole.  This  was 
the  only  time  in  the  memory  of  those  who  served  under 
him  that  the  late  sheriff  ever  shot  to  kill. 

A  strange  fate  caused  Taylors  cartridges  to  jam  in 
his  gun,  forcing  him  to  quit  firing;  but  he  brought 
back  the  first  prisoner.  Tracing  the  second  robber 
through  three  states,  Taylor  finally  checked  up  on  him 
in  Montana.  The  bandit  was  then  brought  to  the  Mult- 
nomah County  jail  in  Portland,  and  here  occurred  an 
example  of  Taylor's  uncanny  ability  to  visualize  a  man 
and  unerringly  memorize  his  face,  for  out  of  a  group 
of  sixty  men,  Taylor  picked  him  out,  identifying  him 
weeks,  possibly  months,  after  having  seen  him  only 
once  under  distracting  circumstances  and  then  from 
behind  a  telegraph  pole. 

In  early  July  of  1920,  about  the  time  the  great  com- 
bines were  starting  to  garner  the  first  of  Umatilla 
County's  vast  golden  wealth  of  wheat,  word  came  into 
the  sheriff's  office  at  Pendleton  of  a  hold-up  staged  a 
few  miles  east  of  the  city  by  two  bandits  showing  all 
the  earmarks  of  desperadoes.     Taylor  and  deputies 

44 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

soon  picked  up  their  trail  and  came  upon  them  near 
the  Httle  hamlet  of  Reith  in  the  canyon. 

Then  came  a  running  gun  fight.  Deputy  Jacob 
Marin  captured  the  first  bandit  who  traveled  under  the 
alias  of  Neil  Hart; — but  his  "pardner"  under  the  alias 
of  Jim  Owens,  the  more  desperate  of  the  two,  took 
to  the  hills  pursued  by  Taylor,  and  a  hide-and-seek 
chase  and  gun  duel,  with  life  and  death  the  stakes,  and 
odds  even,  was  witnessed  by  the  people  of  Reith  in 
the  valley  below.  Playing  one  another,  crouching  like 
panthers,  they  eventually  closed  in,  Taylor  getting  the 
drop  on  his  man. 

Like  a  flash  Owens  with  the  movements  of  a  cat 
grabbed  the  sheriff's  gun,  attempting  to  turn  it  on  his 
captor;  but  he  did  not  count  on  the  power  of  Taylor's 
grip.  Most  men  would  have  shot  his  man,  but  Tay- 
lor, adhering  to  his  policy  of  never  killing  a  man  to 
capture  him,  soon  had  the  outlaw  in  front  of  him 
covered,  and  jailed  him  in  Pendleton. 

On  a  hot  Sunday  afternoon  two  weeks  later,  the 
streets  of  little  Pendleton  were  all  but  deserted.  Those 
who  were  not  at  the  ball  game  at  Round-Up  Park  were 
resting  in  the  cool  shade  of  house  or  veranda.  Even 
the  courthouse,  in  which  the  jail  is  ensconced,  was  de- 
serted. About  a  quarter  of  two  Deputy  Sheriff  Jacob 
Marin  with  the  help  of  Louis  Anderson,  a  trusty  he 
had  taken  out  with  him,  entered  the  jail  with  the  mid- 
day meal  for  the  prisoners.  Anderson,  having  noticed 
that  no  one  but  the  deputy  was  about  the  courthouse, 
signaled  to  his  companions  that  the  coast  was  clear, 
Marin  was  shortly  dispensing  the  dinner  to  the 
prisoners. 

Crack !  He  was  felled  from  behind  by  John  Rathie, 
a  prisoner,  with  a  heavy  stick  of  cordwood,  striking  his 

45 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

head  against  the  iron  raiHng.  All  but  stunned,  half 
crouching,  he  reached  for  his  gun.  But  his  arm  was 
seized  by  Neil  Hart,  who  dodged  just  in  time  a  power- 
ful swing  of  the  bunch  of  keys  by  the  gritty  warden. 

Thud!  Again  a  terrific  blow  crashed  upon  Marin's 
head.  Even  then,  unable  to  tie  the  hands  or  stop  the 
calls  for  assistance  of  the  half -dazed  but  struggling 
warden,  it  required  the  combined  efforts  of  the  prison- 
ers to  carry  him  to  a  nearby  cell  and  throw  over  the 
bolt.  Taking  no  chance  with  such  a  desperate  fighter 
even  though  imprisoned,  they  left  one  man,  Dick  Pat- 
terson, to  guard  him  while  four  of  them,  Hart,  Owens, 
Rathie  and  Lingren  having  the  keys,  entered  the 
sheriff's  office.  Lingren  lit  out  at  once  for  fresh  air. 
Led  by  Owens  and  determined  to  escape  at  all  cost,  the 
others  immediately  began  ransacking  the  office.  Re- 
volvers were  secured  at  once,  but  not  the  ammunition 
which  it  had  always  been  the  sheriff's  habit  to  keep 
hidden. 

Papers,  books,  everything  was  being  strewn  all  over 
the  place  in  their  hurried  search,  and  it  was  upon  this 
scene  that  Taylor  and  Guy  Wyrick,  a  close  personal 
friend,  unexpectedly  entered,  returning  from  their 
ride. 

There  was  no  time  to  draw  a  gun ;  Taylor  grappled 
Owens,  the  biggest  of  the  three,  and  threw  him  to  the 
floor;  while  Wyrick,  who  was  ably  handling  Hart,  was 
struck  from  behind  by  Rathie  upon  whom  he  turned. 
The  two  men  fell  fighting  to  the  floor. 

There,  too,  lay  the  sheriff's  gun  which  had  dropped 
from  his  holster  in  his  hand-to-hand  fight.  With  a 
bound  Hart,  now  free,  snatched  it,  and  in  response  to 
Owens'  call  to  shoot,  raised  the  gun.  The  sheriff,  re- 
leasing one  hand  from  his  grip  on  Owens',  with  re- 

46 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

markable  quickness  again  grabbed  the  gun  barrel  in 
time  to  divert  the  shot. 

"Shoot  him  again,"  commanded  Owens,  as  the  two 
men  locked  in  a  struggle  for  life  and  death. 

Drawing  the  gun  down  to  Taylor's  heart  he  fired 
again,  the  bullet  entering  the  sheriff's  chest  just  below 
the  throat. 

"Guy,  I'm  shot,"  gasped  the  fatally  wounded  man 
as  he  crumpled  to  the  floor. 

With  the  muzzle  of  his  gun  and  a  threat  to  kill,  Hart 
forced  Wyrick  to  release  Rathie,  then  again  drawing 
on  Taylor  cursed  them  both  and  demanded  the  loca- 
tion of  the  ammunition,  but  received  no  response. 
Again  he  threatened  to  fire,  when  Wyrick  shouted. 
"You  wouldn't  shoot  a  man  when  he's  down,  would 
you?" 

Taylor,  realizing  he  was  fatally  wounded,  in  order 
to  save  Wyrick  told  the  men  where  the  cartridges  were. 
The  effort  was  a  severe  one  for  the  dying  sheriff,  and 
he  asked  for  water.  After  some  debate,  in  which  no 
little  cursing  figured,  it  was  brought  to  him  by  one  of 
the  men,  while  Wyrick  under  the  muzzle  of  a  gun 
assisted  him  as  much  as  possible,  placing  him  on  a  bed 
in  an  adjoining  room.  Meanwhile  the  other  two  des- 
peradoes searched  for  a  full  supply  of  revolvers  and 
ammunition. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  asked  R.  E.  Phelps,  county 
road  master,  who,  hearing  the  noise,  ran  up  to  the 
sheriff's  office,  accompanied  by  another  man. 

"Just  a  little  jail  riot,"  answered  Anderson,  standing 
at  the  jail  door,  and  whom  Phelps  did  not  realize  was 
a  prisoner. 

"Everything  all  right  now?"  queried  Phelps. 

"All  right,"  came  back  from  the  adjoining  room. 

47 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

"Let's  go,"  shouted  Owens.  Patterson,  leaving 
Marin,  joined  the  others,  now  all  armed  with  loaded 
revolvers,  and  the  five  lit  out,  heading  for  the  railroad 
tracks.  Here  one  of  those  strange  coincidences  we 
call  fate,  seemed  to  favor  them — a  freight  train,  an 
extra,  which  was  promptly  jumped  was  just  leaving 
the  city  east-bound  for  the  Blue  Mountains. 

Wyrick,  caring  for  the  fatally  wounded  sheriff 
under  cover  of  a  gun  until  the  five  men  fled,  immediate- 
ly upon  their  departure  telephoned  for  a  doctor.  Phelps, 
however,  had  been  suspicious,  but  being  unarmed, 
walked  slowly  away  until  out  of  sight,  then  speedily 
notified  the  chief  of  police,  who  gun  in  hand,  rushed 
to  the  jail  to  find  the  birds  flown. 

"Til's  shot!" 

The  word  was  passed  by  mouth  and  phone.  It  was 
a  rude  awakening  which  aroused  the  slumbering  little 
city  from  its  Sunday  siesta.  The  quiet,  empty,  hot 
streets  immediately  became  spotted  with  little  groups 
of  people  talking — at  first  in  subdued  tones.  Then 
came  the  second  word — "The  jail's  broke  I  Til's  mur- 
derers have  made  a  getaway." 

Then  the  storm  burst.  People  scurried  to  and  fro, 
autos  shot  down  street,  up  street,  and  across  street. 
Telegraph  wires  were  hot  with  messages  to  head  off 
the  prisoners  or  asking  for  information.  Determined 
men  mouths  grim  set  and  eyes  steady,  went  quietly  but 
quickly  to  their  homes  and  loaded  their  rifles.  Hard- 
ware stores  were  unlocked  and  their  owners,  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand  towards  the  gun  racks,  told  the  man- 
hunters  to  help  themselves.  Deputies,  headed  by  the 
released  Marin,  took  charge  and  the  entire  surround- 
ing country  was  notified. 

Wild  rumors  and  groundless  clues  of  the  flight  were 

48 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

plentiful,  but  the  first  clue  came  from  the  brakemen 
bloodhounds  on  the  west  bound  extra,  No.  21136. 
They  had  seen  five  men  drop  off  the  freight  at  Mission, 
six  miles  east  of  Pendleton,  and  make  for  the  brush 
near  the  river.  Posses,  hastily  organized,  struck  out  in 
every  direction,  but  when  it  was  known  a  clean  get- 
away had  been  made,  returned  for  definite  orders  and 
found  that  Sheriff  Taylor  was  dead.  As  men  came 
into  the  office  of  the  late  sheriff  for  orders,  tears 
glistened  in  their  eyes,  but  their  eyelids  did  not  quiver 
and  their  hearts  were  hard. 

Following  the  clue,  armed  to  the  teeth,  they  shot  out 
in  cars.  One  large  posse  thoroughly  searched  the 
wheatfields  and  brush  about  Mission.  Lingren,  the 
first  to  skip  out  and  who  had  no  hand  in  the  fight  had 
evidently  boarded  the  same  freight,  and  was  shortly 
captured  about  twelve  miles  from  Pendleton  at  Cayuse. 
In  less  than  ten  hours  he  was  again  behind  the  bars, 
but  gave  absolutely  no  information  of  the  where- 
abouts of  the  other  five  fugitives.  Evidence  was  ob- 
tained later,  however,  which  proved  that  the  posse  was 
within  ten  yards  of  where  they  were. 

Bloodhounds  from  the  state  penitentiary  at  Walla 
Walla,  fifty  miles  from  Pendleton,  were  rushed  to  the 
scene;  all  points  on  the  railroads  were  carefully  guard- 
ed, even  mountain  cabins  were  notified,  and  the  hunt 
reorganized.  Twilight  found  over  one  hundred  men 
at  Mission  with  the  hounds  in  leash.  They  stalked  the 
fugitives  throughout  the  night,  the  largest  posse,  whip- 
ping one  long  canyon,  saw  daylight  on  Cabbage  Hill 
in  the  foothills  of  the  Blue  Mountains  eighteen  miles 
away. 

Here  they  found  that  the  meat  house  of  a  construc- 
tion  camp   had   been   robbed.      Cheese,   sausage   and 

4  49 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

dried  codfish  had  been  carried  away.  In  a  muddy  spot 
at  the  spring  nearby  a  tell-tale  footprint  was  identified 
by  one  of  the  posse  as  corresponding  to  that  of  a  shoe 
worn  by  Owens.  Thus  the  first  clue  was  obtained  and 
bloodhounds  were  placed  on  the  scent. 

The  heavy  brush  in  the  deep  canyons  and  the  ex- 
treme dryness  of  the  rocky  hills  greatly  hampered  the 
hounds.  When  the  trail  was  hottest,  a  hurry  call  came 
from  a  town  about  thirty  miles  away  to  the  west  of 
Pendleton,  requesting  all  available  posse  men  to  help 
close  in  on  the  fugitives  who  had  been  surrounded. 
There  was  no  time  to  debate  the  matter,  and  much 
against  the  will  of  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  dogs, 
the  whole  party  of  man-hunters  was  streaking  down 
mountain  toward  Pendleton.  The  report  proved  false 
and  the  chase  was  again  up  in  the  air. 

The  courthouse  in  Pendleton  now  saw  the  hunters 
gathered  in  and  new  plans  were  systematically  laid, 
maps  of  creeks,  canyons,  springs,  cabins  and  every 
possible  point  where  the  desperadoes  might  go  were 
made;  stations  were  established  at  all  points  and  tele- 
phones taken  to  many  of  them  from  which  reports 
were  phoned  hourly.  W.  R.  Taylor,  "Jinks"  Taylor 
to  those  who  know  him,  brother  of  the  murdered 
sheriflf,  a  prominent  rancher  of  the  county,  was  ap- 
pointed by  the  court  to  fill  the  unexpired  term  of  his 
brother,  while  posters  announced  a  total  reward  of  six 
thousand  dollars  for  the  capture  of  the  fugitives,  dead 
or  alive.  Invaluable  assistance  in  the  planning  and  or- 
ganizing was  rendered  by  two  additional  Oregon  ex- 
perts in  this  line  of  work — "Ace"  (A.  B.)  Thompson 
of  Echo  and  E.  B.  Wood  of  Portland. 

The  search  was  now  re-planned  in  a  scientific  man- 
ner.   All  traffic  was  stopped  through  the  county ;  busi- 

50 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

ness  houses  closed  down  and  allowed  their  employees 
to  join  the  posses;  sheriffs,  deputies,  government  de- 
tectives and  railroad  officials  joined  in  the  hunt;  In- 
dians of  the  Umatilla  Reservation  joined  the  friends 
of  the  dead  sheriff  as  they  rode  horseback  over  the 
hills,  while  on  all  possible  trails  scouts  were  placed. 

Not  until  after  four  days  of  exhaustive  effort  did 
any  of  the  posses  get  within  sight  of  the  outlaws ;  then 
two  men  were  seen  at  a  distance  and  shots  exchanged. 
Reports  of  various  robberies  committed  in  the  nearby 
cabins  indicated  that  the  fugitives  were  in  the  vicinity, 
and  after  three  days  of  the  hardest  trailing,  sometimes 
by  tracking,  sometimes  with  the  aid  of  bloodhounds, 
over  rocky  hills  and  into  deep  canyons  heavily  masked 
with  brush  and  almost  impossible  of  penetration,  a 
posse  of  Pendleton  and  LaGrande  men  under  Sheriff 
Lee  Warnack  came  to  a  deserted  campfire. 

Reaching  a  telephone  they  notified  a  posse  from  La- 
Grande  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain  to  head  the 
bandits  off.  In  response  the  LaGrande  posse,  scouring 
the  hills  for  isolated  sheep  camps,  working  on  to  the 
Daxe  Johnson  ranch,  came  upon  the  darkened  tent 
house  of  a  French  sheepherder,  who  lay  soundly  sleep- 
ing on  a  rough  couch  in  the  dark  and  obscure  interior. 

"Have  you  seen  any  strange  men  in  this  section?" 
they  called  loudly. 

The  man  roused  himself.  "Non,  I  have  not,"  he  re- 
plied, rubbing  his  sleepy  eyes. 

Meantime,  however,  he  pointed  significantly  toward 
a  figure  asleep  on  the  floor  to  one  side  of  the  door  of 
the  tent.  Again  the  Frenchman  raised  his  swarthy 
arm,  this  time  pointing  to  a  sleeping  man  on  the  couch 
beside  him. 

Carbines  were  quickly  unlimbered.     Flashlights  lit 

51 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

up  the  scene,  and  before  they  could  awaken  from  their 
deep  slumber,  the  two  sleepers  in  no  uncertain  manner 
were  roughly  jerked  to  their  feet.  There  stood  Owens 
and  Hart. 

"Search  'em,"  and  as  they  went  thoroughly  and 
quickly  through  the  captives  a  big  gun  slipped  from 
Owens'  holster  and  fell  to  the  ground.  With  the  quick- 
ness of  a  cat  he  reached  for  it,  and  as  he  stooped  over 
to  seize  it  he  ran  plumb  against  a  rifle  which  one  of 
the  possemen  jammed  square  in  his  face. 

"Move  another  inch  and  I'll  shoot  you  dead  in 
your  tracks,"  he  threatened. 

"To  hell  with  you;  shoot  and  be  damned,"  mutter- 
ed Owens  but  shoved  "hands  up"  as  the  gun  came  into 
play. 

Half-starved  and  exhausted  from  their  flight  over 
the  mountains,  cheeks  sunken  from  loss  of  food  and 
sleep,  feet  bruised  and  blistered  from  six  days  of  cease- 
less hiking,  the  two  were  then  with  scant  ceremony 
bound  together  hand  and  foot. 

Thus,  after  six  days  of  trailing  foot-prints  and  fol- 
lowing with  bloodhounds  over  some  of  the  roughest 
kind  of  country,  the  two  most  desperate  of  the  quin- 
tette were  caught  like  rats  in  a  trap,  in  a  lone  sheep- 
herder's  cabin  six  miles  east  of  Toll  Gate  on  the  top 
of  the  Blue  Mountains.  The  pair  were  taken  to  the 
Union  County  jail  in  LaGrande,  again  within  the 
clutch  of  the  law. 

Shortly  after,  Til's  brother,  "Jinks"  Taylor,  now 
acting  as  sheriff,  arrived  in  LaGrande  and  gave  Sheriff 
Lee  Warnack  a  receipt  for  the  "live  bodies"  of  Owens 
and  Hart,  who  were  immediately  bundled  into  the  ton- 
neau  of  a  high-power  machine  and  the  car  made  for 
Pendleton. 

52 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

The  day  proved  to  be  a  complete  round-up  of  the 
entire  five,  who  on  the  third  day  of  their  flight  had  spHt 
up.  Rathie  had  been  going  it  alone,  and  had  eaten  only 
six  times  in  six  days  under  the  terrific  strain  of  being 
hunted.  He  had  thrown  away  his  revolver,  and  made 
no  resistance  when  captured  in  the  mountains  twenty 
miles  from  Pendleton  at  Gibbon,  where  he  had  ap- 
peared at  a  cabin  demanding  food.  It  was  over  this 
same  country  and  at  the  very  point  at  Gibbon  on  the 
mountains,  that  the  late  sheriff,  after  a  chase  of  many 
days,  had  run  down  and  captured  the  bandits  who  blew 
a  safe  in  Helix.  At  Toll  Gate,  Rathie's  attempt  to 
pass  over  the  mountain  had  been  foiled  by  guards,  and 
the  moves  he  made  show  that  the  posses  were  close 
on  him  all  the  time.  Though  Rathie  was  captured 
after  Owens  and  Hart,  he  was  the  first  to  be  brought 
to  Pendleton,  few  knowing  until  evening  that  he  had 
been  smuggled  into  the  jail. 

The  last  to  be  run  down  were  Patterson  and  Ander- 
son. They,  too,  when  captured  by  sheepherders,  were 
suffering  from  hunger,  having  eaten  nothing  but  green 
oats  picked  from  the  grain  fields  since  the  previous 
Sunday.  In  fact,  so  great  was  their  fear  of  being 
lynched  that  breaking  down  and  crying,  they  pleaded 
not  to  be  placed  in  the  same  jail  with  Owens  and 
Hart. 

News  of  the  capture  of  Owens  and  Hart  spread  like 
wildfire.  Extras  were  issued  and  the  courthouse  lawn 
was  black  with  men  waiting  the  return  of  the  captives 
to  Pendleton.  They  were,  however,  rushed  into  the 
county  jail  by  a  side  entrance  before  the  angry  mob 
could  take  action.  The  crowds  outside,  increasing 
every  moment,  were  so  threatening  when  later  Patter- 
son and  Anderson  arrived,  that  the  sheriff  placed  the 

53 


THE  SHERIFF 

Many  were  the  romantic  characters  in  that  cast  of  unapplauded 
pioneers  and  adventurers  who  cuhninated  the  last  act  of  their 
Odyessy  in  the  great  original  epic  scene  of  their  drama  "The 
Winning  of  the  West."  Their  stage  was  the  prairie;  the  wings — 
the  rivers ;  the  foothills  and  mountains,  the  scenery ;  the  drapes 
— the  sun,  sky  and  stars;  the  red-flickering  campfires  their  foot- 
lights. 

But  of  that  cast  none  played  a  more  prominent  part,  none 
could  be  less  spared  than  the  sheriff.  The  old  time  sheriff  with 
his  deputies,  not  only  symbolized  the  law,  but  generally  was  the 
law — the  only  legal  protection  the  law  abiding  had  against  the 
lawless.  He  was  often  the  court,  police  department,  judge,  jury, 
jailer  and  executioner  all  rolled  into  one.  It  was  a  dangerous 
roll  compared  to  that  of  the  average  sheriff  of  today. 

In  some  instances,  as  at  Virginia  City,  Montana,  in  the  heyday 
of  the  gold  rush,  the  bad  element  predominated  and  elected  one 
of  their  own  ilk  as  sheriff,  as  was  the  case  of  Plummer  whom 
Langford  mentions  in  "Vigilante  Days  and  Ways."  My  friend 
Pat  Sheehan,  who  was  a  "nestler"  in  the  Gallatin  Valley  and 
whose  yellow  fishing  rod  I  once  spied  among  the  quaking  asps 
along  the  Taylor  on  my  way  back  from  a  "drive"  can  bear  testi- 
mony to  that. 

I  dismounted  and  clumped  along  beside  him  leading  old  Glass 
Eye.  As  we  walked  toward  his  cabin  where  he  had  staked  out  a 
claim,  he  told  me  he  had  struck  it  rich  in  the  Vigilante  Days  and 
late  one  afternoon  set  out  toward  Virginia  City  but  was  waylaid 
by  two  stickup  men  not  far  from  the  town.  But  he  sent  one  of 
the  pair  on  by  the  "short  cut,"  the  other  took  one  of  his  own, 
so  Pat  kept  his  gold.  Naturally  he  told  his  story  to  the  next  man 
he  met  just  out  from  the  town  as  he  chanced  to  be  the  sheriff. 

"Well !"  said  Pat,  "Fartunately  a  frind  o'  mine  happened  along 
and  after  he'd  poured  o'  drink  of  wather  on  me  face  and  a  drink 
o'  red  eye  down  me  mouth  I  came  around  alright." 
"What  happened,"  I  queried. 

"Give  me  yer  hand."     Shifting  his  rod  he  seized  my  free  hand 
and  shoved  it  into  his  grizzly  white  hair  hard  against  his  skull. 
My  thumb  sunk  half  way  into  a  deep  depression  made  by  the 
blow  of  a  pistol  butt. 
"Do  yer  fale  that?" 
"Sure,"  said  I,  "how  did  that  happen." 
"Ploomer  did  it." 

Even  in  these  early  days  we  see  political  power  germinating 
in  the  hands  of  the  gangster  and  the  gang,  justice  aborted  and  its 
sacred  dispensation  held  in  the  hands  of  the  grafter  and  his 
henchmen. 

It  was  such  conditions  which  led  the  better  element  to  organize 
their  vigilantes  or  citizens  protective  committees  during  those 
formative  days  and  which  brought  the  office  of  sheriff  as  one  of 
the  most  honored  a  community  could  bestow  and  its  duties  among 
the  most  dangerous  and  arduous. 

The  demand  for  the  work  of  the  old-time  western  sheriff  has 
almost  disappeared,  likewise  that  noble,  picturesque,  courageous 
type  of  citizen  of  whom  Til  Taylor,  Sheriff  of  Umatilla  County, 
was  an  outstanding  example. 


!tt 


C     o 


."3  p^ 


o  ^5 


t>   ft 
>-  a 


c   §  ^ 
5      •? 


OJ 


M 


0)    1)  j3 
CU  ^   t^ 

°    C    ° 

°'5  « 

g    l-J      4) 

II 


w 


THE  EPIC  DRAMA  OF  THE  WEST  ON  PARADE 

On  Saturday  morning  the  last  day  of  the  carnival,  the  Round- 
Up  marshals  its  page  and  pageantry  into  a  great  panorama  of 
the  Westward  Ho  parade — the  Old  West  on  the  move.  Pendle- 
ton is  filled  to  the  brim  with  holiday  humanity.  Here,  indeed,  you 
see  the  efficient,  courteous  character  of  its  community  for  a  com- 
munity's real  nature  is  usually  worn  on  its  holiday  sleeve — and 
you  agree  that  Pendleton's  faultless  carnival  jacket  needs  no 
mending. 

Preceded  by  the  mounted  cowboy  band,  the  Governor  of  Ore- 
gon heads  the  march,  followed  by  the  clean-cut  western  types 
of  the  Round-Up  president  and  committee.  You  now  look  into 
the  kaleidoscope  of  time;  revolve  it  and  its  color  particles  on 
your  field  of  vision  evolve  into  rainbow  shirted,  kerchiefed  cow- 
boys, hundreds  of  them  four  abreast,  range  types  you'll  never 
forget.  As  they  ride  by,  stir  in  you  a  forgotten,  primitive, 
natural  something,  an  atavistic  element  you  didn't  know  existed. 
Again  they  evolve  into  cowgirls,  scouts,  old-timers,  miners,  mules, 
oxcarts,  prairie  schooners,  stagecoaches  pack  trains  which  shape 
up  and  then  disintegrate  by.  Now  they  dissolve  into  form — the 
hunter  scene  which  float  by — and  the  pioneer,  the  Indian,  the 
camp  fire,  and  all  tlie  principle  epic  episodes  of  the  old  life  of 
the  hunt  and  range.  And  lastly  into  a  magnificent,  galaxied 
mass  of  color  which  falls  transforming  into  the  mobile  shapes 
of  Indians.  You  catch  your  breath,  is  this  riot  of  color  Indians 
or  an  interweaving  of  broken  up  rainbows  as  the  glorious 
chaliced  spectrum  of  the  Indian  section  passes  in  its  shifting 
variety, — a  seemingly  endless  human  chromoscope — you  agree  it 
is  the  most  gorgeous  mass  and  merge  of  color  you  have  ever 
conceived. 

So  it  passes,  this  picturesque,  romantic,  adventurous  Old  West 
in  its  last  review,  passes  between  the  solid  banked  phalanxes  of 
neutral  clad  spectators,  along  these  less  inspiring  gray  lanes  of 
modernity,  passes  under  the  triumphal  arches  of  color,  bunting, 
banners,  and  flags  which  gracefully  back  and  fill  in  the  soft  lift 
of  air  which  breathes  down  Main  Street.  The  most  conspicuous 
banners,  next  to  those  of  America  are  those  of  the  Round-Up 
bearing  its  emblematic  symbol,  a  rider  on  a  bucking  horse  and 
the  Round-Up  slogan — "Let  'er  Buck." 

The  parade  of  Westward  Ho,  did  they  say,  soft  pattering 
down  the  pavements  of  Main  Street?  It  is  Westward  Ho,  re- 
echoing down  the  corridors  of  time. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

prisoners  first  in  the  city  lock-up,  afterwards  smug- 
gling them  into  the  county  jail. 

That  five  desperadoes  could  be  captured  at  different 
points  in  the  same  day  without  the  firing  of  a  single 
shot,  seemed  unbelievable  to  the  citizens  of  a  regio* 
where,  throughout  its  pioneer  history,  the  revolver  ha 
been,  and  in  some  parts  still  is,  regarded  as  a  man 
best    friend.      When,    however,    the    realization    waL 
borne  in  upon  them,  that  only  a  meager  wall  screened 
from  them  the  men  responsible  for  the  killing  of  Til 
Taylor,  the  crowd  about  the  courthouse  was  augment- 
ed.   As  the  evening  wore  on,  the  tense  atmosphere  in- 
dicated that  a  break  was  inevitable. 

Milling  about  the  courthouse,  a  salient  of  the  black 
mass  finally  surged  inside  and  packed  the  hall  about 
the  office  where  the  life  of  their  well-beloved  friend 
and  sheriff,  less  than  a  scant  week  before,  had  been 
snuffed  out.  Here  was  no  doubt  of  the  guilty  and 
their  accomplices.  Men's  hearts  burned  within  them 
and  their  souls  surged  with  intense  resentment.  Law, 
justice,  yes,  and  that  inherent  man-thirst,  revenge, 
seemed  to  them  best  served  by  summary  punishment. 
Outside  there  was  an  ominous  murmur  from  the  con- 
stantly swelling  ranks  of  determined  men. 

Then  above  them  in  the  open  door  of  the  courthouse 
appeared  a  figure  with  bared  head  and  in  shirt  sleeves. 
It  was  the  newly  appointed  sheriff.  Beside  him  stood 
a  guard  with  carbine  in  hand. 

"Boys,  if  Til  were  alive,"  the  gleam  of  the  street- 
lamps  reflected  in  the  moist  glisten  in  his  eyes,  "he 
would  want  you  to  let  the  law  take  its  course.  You 
who  are  friends  of  Til,  I  ask  you  to  do  as  he  would 
wish  if  he  were  alive.  Rest  assured  justice  will  be 
done." 

56 


TIL  TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence ;  then  from  here  and 
there  words  of  approval  came  from  the  compact 
group.  Calmer  citizens  supplemented  the  sheriff's 
appeal. 

Little  Pendleton  upheld  its  record  for  intelligent  ac- 
tion, common  sense  and  upholding  of  the  law.  Slowly, 
haltingly,  still  in  a  state  of  partial  indecision,  the  crowd 
turned  its  back  on  the  jail  and  trailed  to  their  homes. 
As  the  sheriff  had  promised,  law  took  its  course  and 
justice  was  done. 

Til  Taylor  had  those  characteristics  which  engender 
respect  and  endear  a  man  to  those  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact.  Generosity  was  as  much  an  inherent  part 
of  his  character  as  courage,  and  any  man,  regardless 
of  his  crime,  could  go  to  him  and  get  money — some- 
times in  gifts  and  sometimes  in  loans.  Of  the  many 
he  had  trusted,  his  murderers  were  the  only  men  who 
went  back  on  him.  Many  men  whom  he  had  arrested 
thanked  him  in  later  years  and  credited  him  with 
turning  them  from  criminal  paths  to  lives  of  useful 
citizens.  Criminals  knew  they  were  going  to  be  caught 
when  he  took  their  trail;  yet  when  he  occasionally 
visited  the  state  penitentiary  prisoners  he  had  placed 
there  would  ask  permission  of  the  warden  to  "talk  with 
Til."  Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  tribute  to  his  rec- 
ord as  sheriff  was  not  alone  the  fact  that  he  never  lost 
a  man  but  that  he  never  killed  a  man.  But,  in  the  end, 
it  was  the  man  whose  life  his  mercy  had  twice  spared 
who  shot  him. 

There  was  a  touch  of  pathos  in  the  act  of  an  old, 
but  reformed  culprit,  who  came  into  the  office  of  the 
secretary  of  the  Round-Up,  the  headquarters  of  the 
Taylor  Memorial  Fund,  with  a  tear  glint  in  his  eye, 
and  deposited  his  humble  contribution  with  the  remark  : 

57 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

"Til  did  me  the  best  turn  a  friend  ever  did — he  set 
me  straight." 

Perhaps  this  humble  act  of  an  old  enemy  of  the  law 
not  only  best  symbolizes  the  love  and  esteem  in  which 
Sheriff  Til  Taylor  was  held  by  all  who  knew  him,  but 
magnifies  the  indelible  record  he  left  as  a  sheriff,  when 
in  the  line  of  duty  he  rode  over  the  Great  Divide. 


58 


CHAPTER  THREE 
CORRAL  DUST, 

"Coin'  to  the  tryouts?" 

I  replied  by  swinging  my  horse  into  the  little  group 
of  riders  on  their  way  to  the  Round-Up  grounds.  On 
my  off  side  rode  Buffalo  Vernon,  one  of  the  contest- 
ants in  the  first  Round-Ups  and  who  set  the  pace  in  the 
roping  and  steer  bulldogging.  Besides  Vernon  was 
Art  Acord,  another  first  class  bulldogger  and  one  of 
the  best  all-round  buckaroos ;  on  my  nigh  side  was  Jane 
Bernoudy,  the  attractive  California  girl  and  one  of 
the  greatest  of  fancy  ropers.  Next  to  Jane  was  the 
marvelous  relay  rider,  Jason  Stanley,  and  on  the  out- 
side long  and  lanky  "Skeeter"  Bill  Robbins. 

We  jogged  along  to  the  soft  clink  of  spur,  champ  of 
bit,  the  jingle  of  rein  chains  and  softer  retch  of  leather 
trappings,  music  to  the  ear  of  range  folk.  This 
level  road,  elm  shaded,  from  between  whose  insterstices 
pretty  cottage  homes  peep  out,  along  which  we  ride  to 
the  soft  putter  of  our  horses'  hoofs,  was  first  a  trail, 
hard-padded  by  centuries  of  passings  of  the  mocca- 
sined  feet  of  the  Amerinds;  then,  after  the  acquisi- 
tion of  ponies,  it  widened  into  a  series  of  parallel 
paths,  perhaps  eight  or  ten,  a  little  more  than  a  rider's 
distance  apart.  Then  the  prairie  schooner,  the  stage 
coach  and  the  freighter  rutted  it  and  the  scout,  cowboy 
and  pony  express  rider  packed  it  harder. 

59 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

This  road  that  leads  past  the  Round-Up  grounds, 
was  a  part  of  The  Great  Trail  of  the  Indians  of  these 
latitudes;  the  great  Amerindian  highway — the  first 
recorded  highway  to  cross  the  divide  which  separates 
the  Eastern  and  Western  oceans,  over  which  traveled 
Pawnee  and  Black  foot,  Bannock  and  Shoshone.  In- 
stinctively the  white  pioneer  followed  these  primal 
trails  which  searched  the  best  passes,  the  smoothest 
ground  and  easiest  fords. 

Thus  this,  The  Great  Trail  of  the  Amerind,  became 
the  ox-team  road  of  the  emigrant,  the  stage  and  the 
freight  route  of  the  pioneer,  the  modern  highway  of 
present  travel.  The  Old  Emigrant  Road  through  Ore- 
gon, known  later  as  The  Oregon  Trail,  reached  the  Co- 
lumbia River  at  The  Dalles,  but  some  contend  that  it 
actually  terminated  at  Oregon  City  where  the  emigrants 
"called  the  journey  over  and  separated  to  find  homes," 
The  main  ford,  hereabouts,  was  like  the  stage  station 
and  first  settlement,  about  two  miles  below  Pendleton 
at  a  place  called  Marshall,  and  the  road  we  now  turned 
off  from  into  the  arena,  is  the  old  Oregon  Trail.  So 
history  rides  into  the  very  gates  of  The  Round-Up. 

To  one  to  whom  the  smell  of  sagebrush,  the  feel  of 
the  stirrup  and  the  whole  gamut  of  the  life  of  range 
and  cow-camp  are  endeared  through  associations,  the 
morning  "tryouts,"  which  occur  on  the  days  just  pre- 
ceding the  great  show,  and  the  elimination  contests  on 
the  second  morning  of  it,  make  an  inherent  appeal.  The 
elimination  contests  are  just  what  the  name  implies — 
contests  to  eliminate  the  many  newcomers  who  cannot 
class  with  the  greatest  riders  of  the  world,  or  as  "Buff" 
Vernon  would  express  it,  "ter  cut  out  the  mavericks 
and  strays."  At  the  tryouts  old  friends  from  British 
Columbia  to  the  Mexican  border  meet  again.     There 

60 


CORRAL  DUST 

is  a  comfortable  naturalness  in  the  way  they  lounge 
about  the  arena  or  watch  with  keen  interest  as  they 
see  the  chances  on  their  "stakes"  rise  or  fall  as  un- 
known riders  or  new  buckers  battle  for  supremacy. 

There,  a  bit  in  the  shadow,  some  of  the  most  ex- 
pert fancy  ropers  living — Chester  Byers,  Cuba  Crutch- 
field,  Bee  Ho  Gray,  Sammy  Garrett,  Jane  Bernoudy, 
Tex  McLeod  and  Bertha  Blancett — play  with  their 
ropes  as  though  those  serpentine  coils  are  living  things. 

Lassoing,  rope  throwing  or  just  "ropin'  "  has  its 
many  styles,  such  as  horse  roping,  steer  roping,  calf 
roping,  done  on  the  open  range  from  horseback  or  in 
corrals,  from  the  saddle  or  on  foot,  each  an  art  in  it- 
self. It  by  no  means  follows  that  a  good  steer  roper 
is  a  good  calf  roper,  and  few  good  straight  ropers  do 
fancy  roping.  Trick  and  fancy  rope  work,  according 
to  Will  Rogers,  one  of  the  best  in  the  game,  was 
first  brought  into  the  United  States  about  twenty- 
seven  years  ago  by  Vincenti  Orespo,  a  Mexican. 

Rogers  says  that  Orespo  was  the  first  fancy  roper 
that  any  of  the  present  day  fancy  ropers  ever  saw.  No 
other  man  had  such  accuracy  and  style  as  he  did. 
Though  he  had  a  less  extensive  routine  of  tricks  his 
catches  were  long  and  clean  and  what  was  particularly 
to  his  credit  was  his  standing  as  a  great  roper.  In 
catching  horses  he  was  a  wonder,  always  throwing  a 
small  loop  and  catching  them  right  around  the  throat 
latch,  not  by  the  middle,  a  hind  leg  or  the  saddle  horn. 

Fancy  roping,  such  as  spinning  and  making  tricky 
catches,  may  have  originated  through  the  play  in  tak- 
ing the  tangle  out  of  ropes.  Unlike  straight  roping, 
fancy  is  advancing  all  the  time,  while  due  straight  rop- 
ing like  the  range  and  the  cowboy  is  dying  out.  It  was 
a  wonderful   aggregation  that  each   day  opened   the 

61 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

performance  in  front  of  the  grandstand  or  "worked 
their  hands  in"  at  the  tryouts.  Watch  Sam  Garrett, 
resplendent  in  purple  shirt,  make  his  rope  hum  and 
twist  as  if  charged  with  an  electric  current. 

Swish!  Tex  McLeod  has  roped  four  horses  and 
riders  in  a  single  noose.  Zip!  and  Chester  Byers,  so 
easy  and  slow  of  action  in  his  fancy  roping,  has  while 
nonchalantly  standing  on  his  head  suddenly  thrown  his 
noose  and  roped  a  passing  horse  by  its  fore  feet.  Pick 
whichever  part  of  a  horse  you  wish  captured  and 
they'll  rope  it,  whether  it  be  by  the  neck,  any  or  all 
feet,  or  even  with  a  flip,  after  the  horse  goes  by,  by  the 
tail  itself.  They  all  make  their  ropes  take  every  con- 
ceivable gyration,  from  the  wedding  ring  or  simple 
circle  to  the  ring  spinning  vertically  through  which 
they  skip.  Standing,  jumping,  sitting,  and  even  lying 
down  makes  no  difference  as  they  spin  circles  with 
eyes  open  or  blindfolded.  Then  Jane  Bernoudy  places 
her  jacket  on  the  ground  and  now  dons  and  removes  it 
to  the  ceaseless  spinning  of  her  magic  ipord. 

How  simple!  Try  it!  Any  of  them  will  be  only  too 
glad  to  show  you.  Snarled  first  try.  "Just  a  bit  of  a 
knack,"  Cuba  Crutchfield  will  encouragingly  tell  you. 
He  thinks  nothing  of  jumping  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  his  vertically  spinning  loop  or  even  inciden- 
tally turning  somersaults  through  it.  Yes,  a  knack 
that  takes  years  of  experimenting  and  an  inborn  "feel" 
for  a  rope  to  accomplish. 

The  "bunch"  has  already  rounded  up  in  the  arena, 
by  the  grandstand — every  type — but  all  branded  with 
the  hall  mark  of  the  range.  Yes,  the  great  days  of 
the  cowboy  have  passed  and  he  is  now  riding  against 
the  sunset  of  his  time.  His  trails  and  camping  grounds 
have  blazed  his  path  through  Texas,   New  Mexico, 

62 


CORRAL  DUST 

much  of  Arizona,  Colorado,  Wyoming,  Western  Kan- 
sas, Nebraska,  Montana,  throughout  the  so-called  "arid 
lands"  and  "bad  lands,"  also  up  through  Dakota  to  the 
Canadian  Northwest  territories  of  his  range,  reaching 
at  one  time  or  another  from  the  alkali  dust-coated 
plains  of  Mexico  to  the  cool  verdant  mountain  forests 
of  Peace  River. 

Perhaps  the  strikingness  of  his  sombrero  and  chap- 
perajos,  and  the  jingle  of  his  spurs  have  so  struck  the 
imagination  that  they  have  blinded  it  to  his  qualities 
and  services.  His  is  a  highly  skilled  profession ;  if  you 
doubt  it,  try  it.  An  early  initiation,  a  long  appren- 
ticeship and  years  of  training  are  required,  both  with 
rope  and  horse,  and  that  is  only  the  manual  part  of  his 
work.  To  know  the  signs  of  the  trail,  the  ways  of 
cattle,  of  horse  and  men  almost  a  law  unto  themselves, 
and  all  the  innumerable  arts  of  their  calling  is  not 
learned  in  a  night  or  by  looking  at  printer's  ink  on  a 
piece  of  white  paper. 

If  one  considers  the  kind  of  fighting,  unbroken  or 
half  broken  refractory  horses,  the  cowboys  had  to  ride 
in  a  country  rough  with  rocks,  or  what  was  worse, 
badger  and  prairie-dog  holes,  yet  withal  maintaining 
a  supreme  and  perfect  control  of  their  mounts  which 
must  be  handled  with  a  manner  and  style  peculiarly 
effective  for  their  purposes,  they  must  be  classed  as 
among  the  best  horsemen  of  the  world.  Those  of  the 
clan  you  now  see  about  the  arena,  walking  or  lounging 
with  an  easy  grace,  are  the  very  pick  of  these  knights 
of  the  quirt  and  the  stock  saddle — the  last  of  their 
clan — a  modest-talking,  quiet-moving,  humor-loving, 
he-man  bunch — yes,  and  a  few  women  thrown  in  too. 

That  cowboy  packing  his  saddle  across  the  turf  is 
"Hughey"  Strickland,  game,  quiet,  a  thorough  sports- 

63 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

man,  a  great  rider  and  one  of  the  best  all-round  cow- 
boys that  was  ever  in  the  arena.  In  this  class  is  Eddie 
McCarty  of  Cheyenne,  as  well  as  A.  E.  McCormack, 
and  Tex  Smith,  both  also  world's  champions  in  the 
bucking  game.  Following  on  their  heels  were  Dell 
Blancett,  Johnny  Judd  and  others. 

None  is  more  typical  than  Johnny  Spain.  He's  that 
strapping  buckaroo  there  with  silver  cuffs  to  his  leather 
chapps  and  heavy  silver-studded  trimmings  and  fringe 
on  his  pocket  covers.  His  right  arm  is  gone  below  the 
wrist — "burnt  off" — got  caught  in  a  hitch  in  his  rope 
— with  the  horse  on  one  end  and  a  steer  on  the  other 
pulling  different  ways.  But  John's  there,  with  a  happy 
smile  and  his  ever  genial  "that's  right"  reply — no  mat- 
ter if  you  tell  him  it's  a  pleasant  day  when  it's  raining. 
John  goes  in  for  everything  and  is  always  right  on  top, 
even  as  "lasher"  on  the  hurricane  deck  of  a  rolling 
stagecoach — and  only  one  hand  to  work  with,  too. 

Just  beside  John  is  Frank  Carter,  from  Wyoming. 
While  he  has  never  won  a  championship  here  or  even 
a  place  in  the  finals,  he  is  a  splendid  rider  and  a  classy 
one,  but  he  was  used  to  riding  with  two  reins  and  ap- 
parently lacked  S' rength  when  it  came  to  riding  here 
with  one.  In  fact,  any  man  who  rides  into  the  main 
lists  must  be  a  real  rider,  for  all  the  good  ones  are 
eliminated  and  only  the  best  ride.  There  is  also  Ray 
Bell,  one  of  the  best  of  the  younger  all-round  men, 
good  at  each  of  the  three  major  sports — riding,  rop- 
ing and  bulldogging — and  who  won  all  three  at  Boise, 
Idaho. 

"Hootcha-la!  I'k  out!"  and  Charlie  Irwin  neatly 
drops  his  rope  about  the  neck  of  Fred  Spain,  John's 
brother.  Fred,  who  is  one  of  the  best  all-round  buck- 
aroos,  slips  off  the  noose  with  a  laugh.   Yes,  of  course 

64 


CORRAL  DUST 

you  know  Irwin,  he's  the  biggest  man  in  the  arena — as 
big  in  heart  and  good  nature  as  he  is  in  body  and  full 
of  high  life — a  natural  born  organizer  and  leader  and 
probably  the  greatest  maker  of  buckaroo  champions. 
He  won't  have  a  cowhand  on  his  ranch  in  Idaho  who 
isn't  a  top  notcher. 

Irwin  is  now  general  and  live  stock  agent  for  the 
Union  Pacific,  and  one  of  the  greatest  characters  in 
the  West  today.  From  his  ranch  he  and  his  brother 
put  out  on  the  road  the  Irwin  Brothers  Wild  West 
Show  with  cowboys  from  their  own  outfit.  He  was 
one  of  the  prime  movers  of  Frontier  Days  at  Chey- 
enne and  knows  the  game  from  every  angle.  He's 
here  with  his  string  of  relay  racers. 

The  whole  Irwin  family,  both  the  boys  and  girls 
are  experts,  who  usually  capture  many  of  the  prizes  at 
Tiajuana,  Mexico.  Young  Floyd  Irwin,  Charlie's  son, 
who  rode  into  the  Great  Beyond  on  the  track  at  Chey- 
enne in  1916  while  roping,  could  do  anything  in  the 
buckaroo  game  and  was  in  a  class  by  himself.  Even 
the  'boys'  say  he  was  the  best  all-round  buckaroo  that 
ever  hit  a  saddle. 

In  the  crowd  of  riders  looking  over  the  saddles 
treed  on  the  arena  fence,  are  some  of  the  stars  of  the 
rope  and  saddle.  That  good  looking,  short  but  well-pro- 
portioned chap  with  "Le  C."  on  the  light  field  of  his 
black-bordered,  silver-studded  chapps  is  Caldwell,  con- 
ceded by  the  buckaroos  themselves  to  be  the  peer  of 
champion  rough  riders.  In  the  course  of  one  morn- 
ing after  Lee  had  made  a  ride,  he  was  hung  up  in  his 
stirrup  and  dragged  part  way  across  the  arena  and 
through  the  fence,  the  horse  meantime  kicking  at  all 
creation  when  the  defenceless  man  put  out  an  arm  for 
a  post.    The  speed  and  force  tore  the  ligament  fright- 

5  65 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

fully  but  also  tore  the  rider  loose  where  he  lay  uncon- 
scious on  the  track. 

It  was  here  I  made  my  first  personal  acquaintance 
with  Caldwell  when  old  Winnamucca  Jack,  the  In- 
dian wrangler  and  I  helped  pick  him  up  and  then 
helped  hold  him  in  Fay  LeGrow's  flivver.  He  insisted 
upon  returning  to  ride,  but  we  rushed  him  to  the  doc- 
tor instead.  He  carried  his  arm  in  a  sling  and  cast 
the  remainder  of  that  Round-Up.  Fay  LeGrow's  fliv- 
ver Lee  was  rushed  to  the  doctor  in  sprung  a  leak  so 
we  came  back  in  his  yellow-brown  touring  car. 

"Ugh!"  gutturaled  old  Winnamucca,  "buckskin 
hi-yu-skookum — bobtail  no  go!" 

Amongst  this  arena  group,  are  other  of  America's 
greatest  buckaroo  rough-rider  champions  —  Yakima 
Cannutt,  who  won  two  world's  bucking  championships 
at  the  Round-Up  and  rode  in  second  and  third  in  two 
other  years.  There's  "Hippy"  Burmeister  and  Rufus 
Rollen,  who  both  have  ridden  in  for  second  world 
championships,  and  picturesque  Jackson  Sundown,  the 
Nez  Perce  Indian  who  won  a  first ;  then  there  is  Dave 
White  who  rode  in  third  in  Nineteen  Seventeen, 
standing  with  his  arm  over  Arizona,  who  pulled  in 
second  the  following  year.  That  fine  type  of  hard- 
boiled  cowman  at  the  end  is  Red  Parker,  of  Valentine, 
Nebraska,  that  auburn-haired  boy  who,  though  he  has 
never  ridden  into  the  finish  here,  is  a  real  rider.  Those 
two  lolling  out  there  in  the  sun  are  Jesse  Stahl  who 
holds  the  bulldogging  record,  and  George  Fletcher, — 
both  ride  well. 

One  of  the  old  "cowhands"  best  known  to  Pendle- 
ton is  missing  this  year,  detained  somewhere  in  Idaho, 
they  say, — started  to  run  a  "butcher  shop"  and  got  his 

cattle  "mixed." 

66 


CORRAL  DUST 

"Corralling  a  bunch  of  yearling  mavericks  ?"  grinned 
buckaroo  Roy  Hunter,  a  cavalryman  from  Vancouver 
Barracks,  to  Walter  Bowman,  the  photographer,  who 
had  rounded  up  a  laughing  group  of  pretty  cowgirls. 

"Yes,  but  they  are  more  than  you  can  brand,  Roy", 
chirped  back  Hazel  Walker  of  riding  fame.  With  her 
were  those  four  marvelous  riders  of  outlaws.  Bertha 
Blancett,  Fannie  Sperry  Steele,  Nettie  Hawn,  and  Tilly 
Baldwin,  an  unequalled  quartette  that  had  the  unique 
record  among  the  women  riders  of  "riding  slick" — 
that  is  without  hobbled  stirrups.  There  was  also 
"Prairie  Rose"  Henderson,  auburn-haired  Minnie 
Thompson,  Eloise  Hastings  and  "Babe"  Lee. 

The  well-proportioned,  golden-haired  cowgirl  is  that 
queen  of  ropers,  Lucile  Mulhall  of  Oklahoma — the 
only  woman  to  successfully  get  a  steer  down  on  time, 
and  the  only  woman  who  has  bulldogged  a  steer  at 
the  Round-Up.  She  is  a  marvel  at  all  three  major 
sports.  She  and  Bertha  Blancett  have  no  superiors 
as  all-round  cowgirls. 

There,  too,  is  Vera  McGinnis,  in  the  brown  fringed 
skirt,  one  of  the  greatest  of  all-round  contestants,  and 
pretty  Ella  Lazinka  who  is  a  good  all-round  cowgirl. 
But  the  palm,  as  an  all-round  cowwoman,  must  be 
given  to  Bertha  Blancett,  probably  the  most  daring, 
gamest  and  as  sportsmanslike  a  woman  as  ever  rode 
at  a  Round-Up,  and  as  efficient  as  many  a  cowboy  on 
the  range. 

Out  on  the  track,  champion  riders  are  exercising 
their  relay  strings  in  turns,  and  are  themselves  getting 
used  to  the  one  quarter  mile  track.  There  are  Lorena 
Trickey,  Mable  DeLong  Strickland,  Tilly  Baldwin  and 
Ruth  Parton,  who  owns  and  rides  her  own  string. 
They  are  training  the  horses   to   the    track   and    the 

67 


A  SHOOTING  STAR 

And  Others  Go 

SAILING  HIGH 

They  indeed  catch  *em  young,  treat  'em  rough — ^but — they  tell 
'em  everything  at  Pendleton,  at  least  they  give  them  every  oppor- 
tunity to  find  out  for  themselves.  I  refer  to  the  aspirants  in  the 
buckaroo  game.  Hot  Foot  on  the  right,  is  again  up  to  his  old 
tricks  and  keeping  this  young  buckaroo  guessing  whether  he's 
about  to  be  a-foot  or  a-horseback,  but  he's  staying  with  him  well. 

I  remember  seeing  Morris  Temple,  a  wee  laddie  of  barely  five 
years,  knocking  about  Main  Street  alone  on  a  big  dobbin',  and  a 
few  Round-Ups  ago  I  watched  that  young  buckaroo  Darrell 
Cannon,  an  embryo  new  "star"  on  the  Round-Up  firmament, 
make  his  first  appearance  in  the  arena  heavens  at  thirteen  years 
of  age. 

Not  only  the  game,  but  the  prizes  are  enough  to  inspire  any  red- 
blooded  boy  or  man  of  the  range  country,  to  aspire  to  win  them. 
When  he  thinks  he  is  all  set  and  rarin'  ter  go,  he  can  show  up  at 
the  Round-Up,  sign  up,  get  his  number,  and  draw  his  boss,  and 
if  he  can — go  get  'em.  What  can  he  get?  Well,  if  he  can  ride 
into  the  world's  bucking  championship,  he  rides  home  a  $500  sad- 
dle, made  and  presented  by  a  Pendleton  harness  and  saddlery 
store,  the  biggest  and  most  complete  in  the  Northwest,  and  $450 
in  cash ;  the  second  place  buckaroo  totes  home  a  magnificent 
Stetson  hat  presented  by  a  leading  department  store  and  tucks 
$200  into  his  wallet;  the  third  man  in  the  grand  finals  buckles 
round  his  waist,  a  beautiful  sterling  silver  belt  presented  by  a 
leading  jeweler,  and  jams  $100  into  the  pocket  of  his  chaps — some 
of  the  rest  of  "the  bunch"  collect  what  their  luck  in  riding  or 
judgment  in  horseflesh  has  won.  But  all  have  ridden  into  three 
days  of  the  old  life,  if  not  into  the  prizes,  and  get  set  for  another 
year. 

Each  outlaw  bucker  has  his  way  of  bucking  and  many  have 
many  ways.  Some  "cake-walk"  like  Hot  Foot,  others  "straight 
buck,"  "weave,"  "double  o,"  "cork  screw,"  "circle,"  "pivot," 
"side-throw,"  "fall  back,"  or  "side  wind"  to  rid  themselves  of  the 
clinging  man  thing. 

Then  again  they  initiate  their  riders  into  their  "sky  scrape," 
"sunfish"  and  "high  dive"  as  Speedball  is  doing  while  "Sailing 
high"  with  Corporal  Roy  Hunter,  21st  United  States  Infantry, 
formerly  of  Vancouver  Barracks.  Both  of  these  buckaroos  are 
riding  well,  for  they  are  riding  "slick,"  that  is,  riding  close  seats, 
fanning,  avoiding  all  artificial  means  of  support  and  riding  in 
good  form  and  have  scratched  their  mounts  at  every  jump.  The 
most  complete  example  of  this,  however,  caught  in  the  camera, 
is  the  remarkable  photograph  on  the  cover,  of  Bill  Mahafifey  on 
Iz  which,  when  he  said  "Let  'er  Buck,"  he  said  a  mouthful. 


a 


CO 

5' 
B. 

13 


5' 

OP 


SPINNING  THE  WEDDING  RING 

No  more  subtle  art  is  required,  or  delicacy  of  skill  exemplified, 
than  in  the  captivating  exhibitions  of  trick  and  fancy  roping. 
No  fancy  roper  ever  won  greater  applause  or  popularity,  not 
only  through  her  supreme  grace  and  variety  of  fancy  roping  but 
through  her  character  and  attractive  personality,  than  Jane 
Bernoudy  (now  Mrs.  Reed)  the  pretty  Californian  from  Santa 
Monica.  Whether  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  Jane  was  equally  at 
home  in  the  control  and  directing  of  that  elusive  thing  the  "lass 
rope."  These  qualities  are  no  better  shown  than  in  the  ease,  beauty 
and  perfect  manipulation  of  her  rope  when  "spinning  the  wed- 
ding ring." 

Cowboys,  even  those  who  are  top-notch  steer  ropers  rarely 
attempt  fancy  and  trick  roping.  It  is  an  art  in  itself  and  bears 
no  direct  use  to  the  work  of  the  range.  It  is  but  a  recent  ad- 
junct to  the  varied  forms  of  roping  and  probably  originated  in 
the  play  of  taking  the  snarls  out  of  the  rope. 

There  are  several  other  fancy  and  trick  ropers  who  stand  as 
top-notchers.  Among  the  women  known  to  the  Pendleton  arena 
are  Tillie  Baldwin,  Lucille  Mulhall,  and  Bertha  Blancett.  While 
among  the  men  are  Cuba  Crutchfield,  Chester  Byers,  Bee  Ho 
Gray,  Sam  Garrett,  Leonard  Stroud  and  Tex  McLeod.  The 
standing  of  a  fancy  and  trick  roper  is  judged  by  the  greatest 
variety  of  tricks  both  in  spinning  and  catching  on  foot  or  a 
"horseback"  coupled  with  the  ease,  grace  and  general  skill 
displayed. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

changes.  Watching  them  are  two  other  cowgirl 
riders,  Donna  Card  and  Vera  Maginnis. 

Bertha  Blancett,  the  veteran  at  the  relay  game,  has 
entered  six  different  years  for  this  contest,  winning 
two  first  world's  championships,  in  two  seconds  and 
two-thirds.  Ruth  Parton  has  ridden  away  with  two 
championships  and  Mabel  DeLong  Strickland  with 
three,  holding  the  second  Round-Up  record  of 
11,55  1-5  seconds,  riding  four  horses  two  miles  each 
day  for  three  days  and  changing  horses  and  saddles. 
Lorena  Trickey  holds  the  top-notch  record  in  11.40  4-5 
seconds,  also  the  best  time — 3.52 — for  one  day's  rac- 
ing. Katie  Cannutt  won  in  1918  and  holds  third  record, 
while  Donna  Card's  close  second  place  for  four  consec- 
utive years  will  be  remembered  in  this  event  as  well  as 
Ella  Lazinka's  game  racing  and  that  of  Fanny  Steele, 
Vera  Maginnis,  Ollie  Osborn,  Miss  Oughy  and  Jose- 
phine Sherry.  In  these  women  is  represented  a  resource- 
ful self-reliance,  yet  they  are  intensely  feminine  withal. 

"Shake  hands  with  Allen  Drumheller,  down  from 
Walla  Walla."  He's  the  peer  of  relay  riders  and  an 
all-round  sportsman,  and  holds  the  Round-Up  record 
in  the  pony  express  race.  He  rides  for  the  pure  love 
of  the  game.  He  is  the  son  of  George  Drumheller,  one 
of  the  biggest  wheat  and  cattle  farmers  in  the  North- 
west, and  not  only  owns  a  wonderful  racing  and  relay 
string  of  horses  but  rides  them  as  well — so  does  his 
sister  Jessie. 

Come  over  here,  and  let  me  introduce  you  to  some 
other  relay  and  pony  express  riders. 

"This  is  Scoop  Martin," — he  holds  the  relay  record 
for  12    minutes  7  seconds. 

"This  is  Darrel  Cannon," — he  first  rode  buckers  at 
the  Round-Up  when  only  fourteen  and  now  is  one  of 

70 


CORRAL  DUST 

the  best  relay  riders  here — in  fact,  he  pulls  down 
second  place  in  the  record  column  for  12  minutes 
21  1-5  seconds. 

"I  want  you  to  know  Knapp  Lynch," — he  follows 
with  third  time. 

"Meet  Lloyd  Saunders," — his  time  on  the  pony  ex- 
press is  only  two  seconds  behind  Drumheller's  and  is 
only  2  2.5  seconds  better  than  Floyd  Irwin's  of  6  min- 
utes 22  3.5  seconds,  made  three  years  before  in  1916. 
But  you'll  learn  more  about  these  records  when  you  see 
the  races  in  the  Round-Up  itself. 

"You've  met  Fred  Spain,  'Sleepy'  Armstrong, 
Chester  Parsons,  Roy  Kelly  who  rides  Fay  LeGrow's 
famous  string,  A.  Neylon  who  won  in  1918,  Bob 
Liehe,  Braden  Gerking,  Wade,  Abbot,  Zedicar  and  all 
that  bunch." 

As  you  know,  most  of  them  ride  pony  express  as 
well  as  relay,  but  in  this  historic  race,  besides  Drum- 
heller,  Saunders,  Irwin,  Spain,  Lynch  and  Gerking, 
you  will  get  such  names  as  Jason  Stanley,  who  first 
won  in  1912,  and  Hoot  Gibson  who  rode  in  for  second 
honors,  Harry  Walters  who  pulled  in  first  in  '18,  and 
Kenneth  Kennedy  who  took  the  premier  prize  in  1920, 
Jack  Joyce  is  one  of  the  old  timers  at  the  Round-Up 
and  is  good  at  the  other  sports;  also  there's  Johnny 
Baldwin  and  Tommy  Grimes. 

It  is  but  natural  that  men  entering  races  requiring 
such  horsemanship  as  the  relay  and  pony  express, 
should  enter  the  list  in  the  standing  race,  so  you  see 
Hoot  Gibson,  one  of  the  cracker-jacks  in  this  race, 
who  took  second  in  1912  and  first  in  1913  against 
three  of  the  greatest  riders  in  this  line,  Sid  Searle,  first 
both  in  1913  and  1915,  Otto  Kline,  champion  in  1914, 
and  Ben  Corbett. 

71 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Corbett,  short,  well  built  and  gritty,  is  the  top- 
notcher  in  the  standing  race,  having  the  distinction  of 
riding  six  consecutive  years  at  the  Round-Up  in  this 
contest  in  which  he  won  two  third  prizes,  three  second 
places  and  pulled  off  one  first  world's  championship  in 
which  he  set  a  new  record  in  1916  by  beating  out 
Hoot  Gibson's  1913  record  by  only  one-fifth  of  a 
second. 

Other  names  rank  high  in  this  eight-footed  tandem 
race.  Cannon,  Kennedy  and  Walters  have  all  made 
championship  rides,  also  Jimmy  Taylor  in  1920, 
Saunders,  Joyce,  Zedicar,  Leihe  and  Homer  Wilson 
go  in  for  this,  and  a  new  rider  Walter  Sterling. 

Among  these  race  entrants  are  six  of  the  greatest 
trick  and  fancy  riders  of  the  world.  Take  that  clean- 
limbed, fair-haired  chap,  as  modest  and  likable  as  he 
is  good  looking, — that's  Otto  Kline,  star  performer. 
Then  there  are  the  two  Seale  brothers,  Sid  and  Walter, 
also  Leonard  Stroud  and  Johnny  Baldwin.  Just  wait 
till  you  see  them.  You  will  be  interested  in  that  buck- 
skin horse,  it's  Tillie  Baldwin's  pet.  The  one  with 
those  unnaturally  long,  curved  up  eyelashes  which 
fringe  out  like  a  pair  of  old  paint  brushes.  Some  of 
the  boys  believe  these  bristles  should  be  clipped,  one 
remarking  "Tillie  you  ought  'er  roach  his  blinkers." 

"No  sirree,  Sampson  had  his  hair  cut  and  you  know 
what  it  did  to  him,"  came  back  Tillie  with  a  twinkle  in 
her  eyes. 

Just  before  you  reach  the  entrance  of  the  grounds, 
you  recall  we  passed  a  line  of  old  time  stagecoaches 
drawn  up  outside  the  gates.  What  a  story  some  of 
them  could  tell — so,  too,  could  some  of  the  drivers  who 
have  raced  them  in  the  arena.  Joe  Cantrell,  a  remark- 
able driver,  holds  the  record  on  championship  drives 

72 


CORRAL  DUST 

having  won  three  different  years.  H.  W.  Smith  there, 
is  another  old-timer  at  this  game,  and  has  driven  here 
off  and  on  from  1912  to  1920  and  always  drives  a  hard 
race.  E.  O.  Zeek,  Johnny  Spain,  Clarence  Plant,  Jim 
McDonald  and  Bill  Hogg  can  all  claim  championship 
drives,  while  Fred  Spain,  Guy  Hoyes,  Frank  Roach 
are  all  on  record  for  second  places,  not  forgetting  the 
two  Indians,  Gilbert  Minthorn  and  Otis  Half  Moon. 

Most  of  the  buckaroos  who  go  in  for  steer  bulldog- 
ging  are  agile  but  powerful  men,  for  it  takes  weight 
to  throw  a  big-necked  steer  by  the  horns. 

"Meet  Ray  McCarroll  and  Yakima  Canutt." 

They  are  both  considerably  over  six  feet,  but  Canutt 
is  one  of  the  most  powerful  buckaroos  in  the  arena. 
McCarroll  won  the  championship  in  1918,  throwing 
two  steers  in  1.26  3-5  seconds,  and  throwing  one  in 
29  1-2  seconds.  Canutt  won  in  1920,  downing  two 
steers  in  60  1-5  seconds,  his  best  throw  being  28  1-5 
seconds.  Canutt  has  the  unique  distinction  of  having 
taken  the  Police  Gazette  belt  for  the  all-round  cow- 
boy championship  three  times  in  1917,  '19  and  '20, 
it  being  taken  in  1918  by  "Hughey"  Strickland, 
in  1915  by  Lee  Caldwell  and  in  1914  by  Sam 
Garrett. 

Garrett  won  the  steer  bulldogging  championship  in 
1914  and  holds  the  third  record.  Dell  Blancett  who 
twice  won  second  place  holds  the  sixth  best  time  ever 
made  here,  while  Jim  Massey  holds  fifth,  winning  the 
championship  in  1919,  and  Siedel  who  was  second  in 
1920  and  whom  Canutt  beat  out  on  the  time  of  two 
steers  by  only  a  second  and  two-fifths,  is  the  holder  of 
the  fourth  best  time  made.  Paul  tlastings  in  his  win 
in  1917  also  holds  second  honors  as  to  the  grand  time 
record,  while  Jesse  Stahl's  record  of  18  1-5  seconds 

7Z 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

stands  as  the  official  one,  although  there  is  an  unofficial 
record  in  12  1-2. 

Some  of  the  other  husky,  nervy  boys  at  that  game 
are  not  in  the  arena  just  now, — some  are  up  town,  a 
few  have  not  shown  up  at  Pendleton  yet  this  year — 
among  them  are  Art  Acord  and  Walley  Pagett,  the 
champions  of  1912  and  '13,  Lou  Minor,  Frank  Cable, 
world's  champ  in  1915,  and  Frank  McCarroll  in  'IS, 
Bill  Nevin,  Fred  Spain,  Henry  Warren,  Jim  Lynch. 
Oh  yes,  there's  Mike  Hastings  and  Orvil  Banks — 
they  are  just  ridng  through  the  gate  now,  they  each 
won  third  in  1919  and  '20  respectively. 

And  we  mustn't  forget  "Buffalo"  Vernon.  Vernon 
hasn't  showed  up  for  some  years  now%  but  in  the  first 
two  shows,  particularly  1910,  "Buff"  was  it, — he  was 
half  the  show.  He  was  one  of  the  very  first  at  the  bull- 
dogging  game,  won  the  first  championship  and  showed 
a  lot  of  the  aftercomers  the  way.  In  his  ornate  chapps, 
yellow  shirt  and  big  well-seasoned  sombrero  which  he 
wore  in  a  way  to  the  manner  born,  he  will  always  be 
remembered  as  one  of  the  most  spectacular  performers 
in  the  early  shows. 

The  last  night  of  the  1910  Round-Up  will  also  be 
remembered  when  enthusiasm  for  Vernon  ran  so  high 
at  the  dance  that  "Buff"  went  home  minus  the  famous 
yellow  topside  clothing,  for  the  dance  wound  up  with 
a  maverick  race  by  all  hands,  girls  included,  for  pieces 
of  Vernon's  shirt  as  souvenirs — such  was  the  way 
popularity  was  roped  at  the  Round-Up  that  year. 

Steer  roping  being  one  of  the  three  major  sports  one 
naturally  expects  to  find  contestants  listed  not  only 
from  the  fancy  and  trick  roping  contingent  but  from 
that  of  the  two  other  major  sports,  for  roping  is  one 
of  the  events  for  the  all-round  championship  prize. 

74 


CORRAL  DUST 

The  star  ropers  are  particularly  well-proportioned, 
clean-limbed  men — take,  for  instance,  that  wonderful 
trio  there,  the  George  and  Charlie  Weir,  and  Eddie 
McCarty.  McCarty  is  well  known  at  Cheyenne  as 
one  of  its  prime  movers  and  organizers.  He  won  the 
world's  steer  roping  championship  here  in  1913,  also 
in  1918,  and  has  always  been  in  the  finish,  his  best  time 
for  a  single  steer  being  26  2-5  seconds,  made  with  a 
total  of  55  4-5  seconds  for  his  two  steers  in  1919  when 
Fred  Beeson,  a  marvel  at  roping,  beat  him  out  in  47 
seconds,  Beeson's  best  time  for  a  steer  was  20  seconds 
flat  that  year,  which  stands  as  the  top  record  here. 

George  and  Charlie  Weir  are  experts  par  excellence 
in  the  steer  roping  game,  George  probably  being  slight- 
ly the  better  of  the  two,  although  in  1917  Charlie  beat 
his  brother  out  for  first  place,  each  roping  two  steers 
in  the  remarkably  fast  time  of  1  minute  7  2-5  seconds 
and  1  minute  26  2-5  seconds  respectively,  Charlie's  best 
single  throw  being  in  7  2-5  seconds  above  the  20- 
second  Beeson  record,  and  that  of  George  only  5  2-5 
seconds  away  from  it.  George  Weir  was  first  world's 
champion  in  this  event  in  both  1915  and  '16,  while  his 
brother  rode  close  behind  him  for  second  in  the  former 
year.  This  quartette,  I  believe,  cannot  be  equalled  in 
the  entire  country. 

There's  good  old  Jim  Roach  who  rides  in  from  the 
tucked  away  Cabbage  Hill,  which  does  not  mix  much 
outside  and  raises  some  of  the  best  strawberries  in  the 
country.  Jim's  an  old  hand  at  the  range  game  and  a 
wizard  in  the  maverick  race.  He  won  out  first  in  the 
steer  roping  in  1912  in  the  fast  time  of  .55  for  two 
steers.  Tommy  Grimes  in  1914  took  the  twelve  hun- 
dred dollar  purse  and  the  three  hundred  fifty  dollar 
Hamley  saddle  in  1914  with  C.  Prescott  second  and 

75 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Jack  Fretz  third.  In  1920  Ray  Bell  roped  the  cham- 
pionship in  the  splendid  average  time  for  two  steers, 
one  in  33  3-5  seconds  the  other  29  seconds,  totaling 
62  3-5  seconds.  Roy  Kivett  was  second  and  J.  H. 
Strickland  third,  both  Roy's  and  "Hughey's"  best  time 
being  within  four-fifths  of  a  second  and  three-fifths 
of  a  second  respectively  of  Ray  Bell's  best  time,  and 
in  each  case  shorter  than  Bell's  lowest  time. 

Sam  Garrett,  Red  Parker,  Johnny  Judd,  Tom 
Grimes,  Phil  Snyder,  Jason  Stanley  and  Chas.  Rein- 
hardt  have  all  ridden  into  the  finals  for  second  or  third 
championships — Joe  Gardner  taking  third  money  in 
1919,  though  a  top-notch  roper. 

Another  well-known  roper,  occasionally  seen  in  the 
arena  contests,  is  Dan  E,  Clark,  live  stock  agent  for 
the  Oregon  Short  Line  Railroad  Company  of  the 
Union  Pacific  System. 

Three  steers  apiece  were  turned  in  from  the  pad- 
docks by  the  Round-Up  for  the  1916  championship 
contestants  and  it  was  a  remarkable  trio  which  rode 
into  the  finals  and  hopped  to  'em — George  Wier,  Ed. 
McCarty  and  Chester  Byers.  They  rode  to  the  cham- 
pionship in  the  order  given  and  made  the  average  of 
2  minutes  5  1-5  seconds,  2  minutes  22  2-5  seconds  and 
2  minutes  52  seconds,  all  three  together  running  down, 
roping,  busting  and  hog-tieing  nine  steers  in  7  minutes 
19  3-5  seconds.  How  long  would  it  take  you  to  drive 
one  of  the  long-horned  brutes  into  a  barn? 

Wait  just  a  minute.     Let's  watch  this  buckaroo — 
he's  tried  out  one  bucker  successfully,  but  this  horse 
is  a  bad  one — Thrown !  but  he  "rode  pretty"  while  he 
rode.    The  old  timers  seem  to  know  him. 
"What's  his  name?" 

"Helmick — Dave  E.  Ilelmick,  of  Madison  County, 

76 


CORRAL  DUST 

Iowa,  he  came  out  to  Kansas  in  '68,  farmed,  rode  and 
trapped,"  says  Jinks  Taylor,  leaning  over  from  his  sad- 
dle. Helmick  has  just  come  from  the  John  Day 
country  way  where  the  miners  struck  it  rich  in  the 
sixties.  Today  this  rough  country  with  its  many  bluffs 
south  of  The  Dalles,  particularly  between  the  Forks 
of  the  John  Day  and  in  the  Harney  River  country,  pro- 
duce some  of  the  best  buckaroos  in  the  world.  They 
sometimes  begin  to  ride  at  the  age  of  three  and  break 
horses  at  ten  in  this  country,  and  only  quit  when  they 
are  stove  up  old  cowpunchers. 

Helmick's  probably  the  oldest  living  active  cowboy 
in  the  country  and  is  here  to  compete.  Last  year  ne 
won  the  championship  bucking  title  at  the  Grant 
County  contests  at  Canyon  City  from  eleven  contest- 
ants, all  young  fellows.  Helmick  insists  on  riding  the 
same  old  turtle-back  saddle  he  has  ridden  for  the  past 
twenty-nine  years.  The  bucking  board  of  Canyon  City 
offered  him  the  best  Thomas  saddle  that  could  be  made 
but  he  would  not  take  it.  His  old  standby  has  just  been 
repaired  here  this  week,  but  despite  its  long  service  the 
committee  feel  that  it's  not  strong  enough  for  the 
Round-Up  outlaws.  How  old  is  Helmick  ?  Oh !  yes — 
why  sixty-eight  and  not  stove  up  yet. 

At  the  tryouts,  or  the  morning  contests,  one  forgets 
the  arena  and  the  all  but  empty  bleachers ;  one  lives  in 
the  spirit  of  the  real  life,  with  its  settings  of  a  memo- 
ried  past  framing  the  background.  One  is  just  in  a  big 
cow-camp,  with  saddles  and  blankets  lying  around; 
cowboys,  cowgirls,  horses  and  Texas  longhorns,  knock- 
ing about  in  a  devil-may-care  sort  of  way  as  though 
on  a  range  round-up  or  at  a  branding.  One  looks 
away  through  the  gap  between  the  bleachers  to  the 
smoke-tipped  lodges  of  the  Umatillas. 

n 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Long  before  the  coming  of  the  paleface,  the  red  man 
had  pitched  his  tepees  along  the  banks  of  the  little 
river  which  carries  down  the  rains  and  the  melted 
snows  of  the  Blue  Mountains  in  northeastern  Oregon 
to  the  Columbia.  These  Amerinds  were  of  the  Uma- 
tilla tribe  from  which  the  river  itself  and  the  town  of 
Umatilla  at  its  mouth  derive  their  names.  How  fitting 
that  in  these  cottonwoods,  but  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
arena,  the  descendants  of  this  and  neighboring  tribes, 
these  children  of  forest  and  plain,  should  come  to  live 
again  the  old  tepee  life  of  an  almost  bygone  day. 

Where  do  they  come  from,  these  autochthonous 
Americans?  A  few  miles  east  of  Pendleton  in  the 
Umatilla  valley  and  on  the  slopes  and  in  the  draws  of 
the  Blue  Mountains  lie  their  homes  on  what  is  left 
of  the  Umatilla  Reservation.  This  reservation  was  at 
one  time  a  territory  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
square  bordering  Pendleton  on  the  southeast. 

Following  the  treacherous  killing  of  courageous  Dr. 
Whitman,  the  Presbyterian  missionary  and  pioneer 
leader,  at  Wai'-letpu  station  by  the  Cayuses  in  1847, 
the  going  on  the  war-path  by  the  Indians  was  the 
greatest  dread  of  the  pioneers.  These  uprisings  oc- 
curred against  settlers  and  United  States  troopers 
every  now  and  then,  while  the  lone  dweller  in  the  wild- 
erness often  had  much  reason  to  fear  attack  at  any 
time.  After  the  noted  massacre  of  Whitman  and  his 
associates,  others  occurred — from  the  Rouge  (later 
Rogue)  River  massacre  and  the  Modoc  War,  down  to 
when  the  Snake  tribe  stole  over  the  Blue  Mountains 
from  Pocatello  and  slaughtered  the  unwary  ranchers 
in  the  vicinity  of  Pendleton,  and  to  this  day  they  are 
known  to  many  old  pioneers  by  no  other  name  than 
"  'Twelka" — enemy.    These  conditions  resulted  mainly 

78 


CORRAL  DUST 

from  the  usurpation  of  the  red  man's  hunting  grounds 
by  the  whites. 

In  1856  a  treaty  was  enacted  with  the  Indians  and 
thus  war  was  ended  as  far  as  the  Umatillas  were  con- 
cerned. But  it  was  not  until  three  years  later  that  the 
President  of  the  United  States  ratified  the  treaty. 
This  resulted  in  the  Umatilla  Reservation  being  estab- 
lished and  assigned  to  the  three  neighboring  tribes — 
the  Umatilla,  Walla  Walla  and  Cayuses,  as  a  home 
territory.  There  they  lived  under  the  United  States 
Agency  until  1882. 

Then  a  large  portion  of  their  land  was  sold  and  the 
remnant  of  these  tribes,  only  eleven  hundred,  including 
breeds,  were  assigned  allotments  on  the  remainder  of 
the  reservation.  The  Indian's  lands  have  been  so  cut 
up  through  sale  and  lease  that  now  they  are  often  de- 
prived of  range  for  their  grass-fed  horses,  which  may 
be  seen  any  day  getting  their  meager  picking  along  the 
grassy  spots  of  the  roadside,  and  reaching  as  far  as 
their  scrawny  necks  will  permit  over  the  barbed  wire 
to  the  green  selvage  of  the  wheat  fields.  Their  feed 
is  so  scarce  and  their  condition  so  poor,  with  range 
so  curtailed,  that  this  forage  is  not  sufhcient  to  prevent 
many  from  perishing  in  any  continuous  cold  stormy 
weather,  when  their  carcasses  will  sometimes  be  found 
by  hundreds  over  the  country. 

It  is  claimed  by  some  that  the  first  house  erected  by 
a  white  man  in  the  county  was  built  by  Father  Brouil- 
let.  This  cabin,  later  accidentally  burned  by  Indian 
boys  while  at  play,  was  on  old  Chief  Isakaya's  land  be- 
tween the  present  warehouses  and  the  new  bridge  at 
the  agency.  It  is  recorded  that  when  the  first  settlers 
came  in  here  from  the  east  the  nearest  and  only 
whites  were  twelve  squaw  men,  employees  of  the  Hud- 

79 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

son's  Bay  Company,  who  were  living  on  the  banks  of 
the  Willamette. 

Among  the  more  interesting  characters  of  the  early 
pioneer  Missionaries  was  the  young  Belgian  priest, 
Father  Louis  Conrardy,  one  of  the  greatest  students  of 
the  Nez  Perce  language  and  who  later  joined  Father 
Damien  at  the  famous  leper  colony  at  Molokai. 

Among  some  of  the  principle  characters  of  the 
Indians  of  the  pioneer  period  living  in  this  vicinity  is 
Chief  Tanitau,  also  a  venerable  old  Indian  named 
Tiwelkatimini  is  mentioned  as  well  as  Welestimeneen. 
It  seems,  too,  that  Chiefs  Aulishwampo,  Five  Crows, 
Alakat  and  Isakaya  all  pitched  their  tepees  along  the 
banks  of  the  Umatilla  itself  as  do  the  Indians  in  the 
Round-Up  village  today. 

Here  now  you  find  about  six  hundred  Indians,  near- 
ly the  entire  population  of  the  reservation,  and  among 
them  not  only  representatives  of  the  Umatilla  (Yuwa- 
tella),  of  the  Cayuse  (Wai'-letpu)  from  the  land  of  the 
Paska,  or  Yellow  Flower  and  the  Walla  Walla,  but  of 
the  Yakimas  and  Columbias  with  whom  they  have  in- 
termarried, while  occasionally  Nez  Perce,  Bannocks 
and  Oklahomas  dwell  amongst  them.  The  three  tribes 
of  the  Umatilla  Reservation,  brought  together  by  the 
government,  originally  known  as  the  Wai'-letpu,  have 
now  blended. 

An  open  lane  through  the  grove  forms  a  village 
thoroughfare,  on  either  side  of  which  the  tepees  are 
pitched.  The  squaws  of  some  of  the  later  arrivals  are 
still  busy  unloading  the  cayuse-pulled  rigs  and  pitching 
with  inborn  know-howness,  their  tepees  of  blue,  white, 
striped  and  variegated  canvas.  Children  rollick  about, 
turned-out  horses  feed  nearby,  and  hunks  of  raw  meat 
are  cached  high  up  on  poles  out  of  reach  of  the  dogs. 

80 


CORRAL  DUST 

That  nearest  tepee  is  of  buffalo  hide — most  all  were 
buffalo  hide  in  the  old  days — but  now  a  buffalo-hide 
tepee  is  rarer  than  the  buffalo  itself  and  brings  a  higher 
price  than  many  a  small  modern  house  will  fetch.  It 
is  also  a  fact  that  some  of  the  native  American  cos- 
tumes are  far  more  valuable  than  those  made  by  many 
a  king's  tailor.  The  eagle  feathers  of  a  fine  war- 
bonnet,  which  may  number  fifty  to  sixty,  are  valued 
at  anywhere  from  two  to  five  dollars  a  plume  accord- 
ing to  size  and  quality.  Then  there  is  the  exquisite, 
solid  beadwork  of  vest,  trousers,  belt  and  moccasins. 

Every  "tepee,"  which  term  is  often  used  to  mean  a 
family,  preserves  carefully  its  ceremonial  costumes, 
including  among  the  possessions  of  the  old  people,  no 
doubt,  a  number  of  those  symbols  of  the  victories  over 
enemy  tribes  and  the  paleface — scalps.  But  these  tro- 
phies are  never  brought  to  light  as  far  as  the  white 
man  is  concerned. 

It  has  been  for  many  years  the  custom  in  the  North- 
west for  communities  to  invite  in  the  Indians  for  the 
Fourth  of  July  celebrations  to  such  an  extent  that  this 
anniversary  of  our  Independence  Day  is  observed  by 
the  Indians  as  their  Shapatkan.  At  this  time  they 
pitch  a  village  of  seventy-five  or  eighty  encircling 
tepees  on  their  reservation  and  attire  themselves  as  of 
old,  and  at  night  by  the  light  of  their  campfires  you 
behold  flashlight  glimpses  of  tableaux  of  a  passing 
people.  In  fact  Shapatkan  has  become  a  real  Indian 
ceremonial,  a  celebration  by  the  former  owners  of  this 
country  in  honor  of  the  freedom  of  its  present  occu- 
pants. 

Here  a  wigwam  is  open ;  you  know  the  family  is  at 
home  because  the  noose  of  the  lap  is  not  run  through 
with  little  sticks.    Glenn  Bushee,  that  white  man  there, 

«  81 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

knows  them  all.  Everybody  likes  Glenn ;  the  Indians 
call  him  Tall  Pine.  He  can  deceive  all  but  the  initiated 
when  in  his  inimitable  chief's  costume  during  celebra- 
tions. 

This  is  Red  Bull's  tepee.  Glenn  says  something  and 
Agnes  Red  Bull,  the  pretty  daughter,  carefully  goes 
through  some  belongings,  and  spreads  before  us  on 
the  rugs,  with  which  the  ground  is  carpeted,  a  spotted 
blue  woolen  Indian  dress.  The  spots  are  elk's  teeth 
selected  for  their  quality  and  each  carefully  stitched 
on — seven  hundred  all  told — making  the  value  of  this 
girl's  gown  about  thirty-five  hundred  dollars. 

In  the  corner  is  an  Indian  you  have  scarcely  observed 
— she's  a  stranger  and  is  visiting  this  tepee.  You  will 
observe  her,  however,  intently  enough  in  the  women's 
bucking  contests,  when  she  rides  as  the  star  Indian  girl 
bucking-horse  rider  and  waves  a  small  American  flag 
while  she  does  it — she's  Princess  Redbird. 

We  wend  through  the  forest  of  tepees  and  cotton- 
woods.  Naturally  that  group  of  Indians  there  are  in- 
terested in  that  band  of  tethered  horses  for  they  are 
some  of  the  Indian  relay  strings.  The  young  buck  who 
is  giving  them  some  points  on  his  relay  string  is 
Richard  Burke,  who  with  his  brother,  Robert,  not  only 
won  the  Indian  relay  world  championship  race  in  1913 
and  1916  respectively,  but  these  two  sons  of  Poker  Jim 
hold  the  two  best  Indian  relay  records. 

Robert  made  the  mile  relay  in  one  day  riding  on  the 
quarter  mile  track  in  2  minutes  13  seconds,  while  his 
brother  Richard  made  it  in  2  minutes  20  seconds. 
Ralph  Farrow  rode  in  only  two  seconds  behind  Robert 
Burke's  total  record  time  and  Farrow's  brother  Jess, 
who  won  the  first  honors  in  1920,  completes  a  remark- 
able quartette  of  Indian  relay  riders. 

82 


CORRAL  DUST 

However,  Luke  Cayapoo,  Tom  Shelal,  Mox-mox, 
and  J.  White  Plume  have  also  taken  second  champion- 
ship places,  and  Lucien  Williams,  Bud  Reed,  Gilbert 
Minthorn  and  Dave  Shippentovver,  who  have  won 
third  places,  have  all  of  them  given  the  Burkes  and 
Farrows  a  hot  run  for  their  money. 

Most  of  these  riders  go  in  for  the  other  major  events 
— the  buckaroos  in  particular  are  excellent  ropers  and 
nervy  bulldoggers.  Minthorn  enters  his  team  of  four 
horses  which  he  drives  in  the  stagecoach  races.  Then 
there  is  Burgess,  the  Oklahoma  Indian,  who  competes 
in  a  number  of  events. 

That  splendid  blue  and  white  tepee  sending  a  blue 
smoke  against  distant  golden  hills,  is  Sundown's. 
Jackson  Sundown  is  a  full-blooded  Nez  Perce,  a  superb 
type  of  his  race.  Not  only  his  remarkable  riding,  but 
his  splendid  quality  of  mind  and  character  have  made 
him  a  prime  favorite  with  all.  Physically  he  is  a  sight 
for  the  gods  with  his  erect  carriage  and  lithe,  agile 
body,  which  still  bears  the  scars  of  three  bullet  wounds 
in  fights  against  the  whites  in  the  long  ago  now,  under 
his  intrepid  and  famous  uncle,  Chief  Joseph.  Little 
wonder  A.  Phimister  Proctor,  the  noted  sculptor,  se- 
lected him  as  nearest  to  his  ideal  type  of  the  American 
Indian,  and  camped  for  six  weeks  on  Sundown's  land 
near  Culdesac,  Idaho,  while  Sundown  posed  daily  for 
Proctor's  "The  Indian  Pursuing  a  Buffalo." 

The  beautiful  bead-embroidered  buckskin- fringed 
gauntlets,  solid  beaded  with  decorative  roses  on  a  white 
background  which  he  proudly  shows  us,  were  made  by 
his  wife  of  whom  he  is  very  fond.  "Hi-yu-skookum 
gloves,  (very  good  gloves)  Sundown."  Although 
Sundown  speaks  some  English,  he  will  understand  our 
jargon,  for  the  Nez  Perce  and  Umatilla  are  linguis- 

83 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

tically  the  same.  Or  if  you  speak  "chinook"  he  will 
understand  that  too  for  "chinook"  is  a  universal  Indian 
language — the  esperanto  of  the  red  man  understood  by 
all  tribes  at  least  of  the  Northwest.  The  word  "chi- 
nook" is  also  applied  to  the  warm  wind  from  the  Japan 
current  which  melts  the  snow  even  in  midwinter. 

Numipu,  as  the  Nez  Perce  tongue  is  called,  is  the 
mother  language  of  the  Palouse,  Cayuse,  Umatilla, 
Walla  Walla  and  Yakima  languages.  Father  A.  Mor- 
villo,  the  Jesuit,  or  "Talsag" — Curly-hair — as  the 
Indians  called  him,  left  a  remarkable  dictionary  and 
grammar  of  the  Nez  Perce  tongue,  but  probably  Father 
Cataldo  must  be  conceded  as  the  greatest  authority  on 
Indian  language.    But  more  of  Sundown  later. 

To  the  initiated,  the  principal  episode  of  the  Indian's 
life,  his  times  and  seasons  may  be  read  in  the  painting 
of  his  person.  Whether  it  be  learning  to  hunt  and 
trap;  reaching  manhood,  seeking  a  creed,  or  meeting 
the  spirit  of  his  dreams,  going  to  war,  seeking  a  mate, 
going  to  battle,  coming  home  as  victor,  undergoing  de- 
feat, joy  and  feasting,  death  and  mourning,  seeking  the 
priesthood,  medicine  and  burying,  becoming  a  seer  and 
being  able  to  travel  far  in  spirit,  of  religious  character 
and  used  especially  at  the  great  annual  festival  of  mid- 
summer, peacemaking,  traveling  or  visiting, — all  may 
be  expressed  by  appropriate  symbols. 

In  these  face  and  body  paintings  are  symbols  that 
he  who  runs  may  read,  though  few  in  this  white  audi- 
ence know — or  care — what  those  earth  and  mineral 
colorings  on  face  and  form  mean.  Many  of  the  Amer- 
inds themselves  know  but  little  of  that  fast-disappear- 
ing art  of  decorative  symbolism;  only  the  old  people 
amongst  them  know.  But  they  use  today  the  same  kind 
of  mineral  colors  they  used  on  the  panels  of  the  Bufifa- 

84 


CORRAL  DUST 

lo  Lodge  and  Mooseskin  Lodge  of  the  tribes,  and 
when,  after  the  coming  of  the  horse,  the  redmen 
daubed  and  painted  his  mount  in  his  ceremonials  as 
well. 

Also  on  the  panels  of  his  lodges  he,  like  the  white 
man,  has  put  on  canvas  in  mural  decorations  the  life 
history  of  his  race  and  tribe,  of  the  courage,  endurance 
and  skill  of  the  warrior,  hunter,  and  lawgiver  who  oc- 
cupied them.  Thus  his  lodges  became  the  pantheon  of 
his  immortelles  and  their  deeds, — an  object  lesson  dur- 
ing the  life-time  of  their  glory. 

Another  generation  will  see  the  obliteration  of  the 
old  yet  fascinating  customs  of  their  ancestors.  Their 
art,  their  songs,  their  dances,  their  sincere  understand- 
ing love  of  nature,  their  simple  direct  communion 
with  the  Great  Spirit,  their  admirable  tribal  social 
structure,  their  formerly  healthy  minds  and  healthier 
bodies,  will  have  passed  away,  and  civilizitis  will  have 
accomplished  its  deadly  work. 

The  medicine  man  under  some  conditions  is  some- 
times even  today  brought  in,  and  feigns  to  cure  the  sick 
and  avert  death  by  performing  certain  contortions  and 
working  his  incantatipns.  To  some  extent  the  old 
rites  and  superstitions  of  the  Indians  still  persist;  the 
tom-tom  is  their  prayer,  and  they  quite  naturally  cling 
to  their  beautiful  old  legends  and  customs  of  bygone 
days — days  when  they  roamed  meads  and  mountain 
glens,  when  herds  browsed  on  luxurious  bunchgrass  on 
hilly  slopes,  and  game  abounded  in  every  forest  nook. 

Listen!  An  old  Indian  slowly  rides  his  horse 
through  the  avenue  of  tepees,  and  every  now  and  then 
gives  vent  to  a  strange  weird  exclamation,  continuing 
his  calls  to  the  end  of  the  village  and  rides  slowly  back. 
It  is  the  Indian  town  crier,  advising  the  village  of 

85 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

orders  in  regard  to  preparing  for  the  parade  tomorrow. 
They  will  all  be  busy  now  putting  finishing  touches  on 
their  costumes. 

"Go  get  'em,  cowboy!"  yelled  a  wrangler.  In  as 
many  seconds  as  it  takes  to  tell  this  a  dozen  buckaroos 
leaped  into  their  saddles,  headed  for  the  open  Round- 
Up  gate  entrance,  disengaging  their  ropes  from  their 
saddle  bows  as  they  rode  to  head  off  a  cloud  of  dust 
with  a  dark  woolly  object  at  its  apex  traveling  through 
space  like  a  comet.  Luckily  this  quick  action  headed 
off  the  passage  to  freedom  of  one  of  the  pair  of 
buffalo  belonging  to  the  Round-Up  stock. 

Can  a  buffalo  run?  Well,  some  of  those  boys  re- 
membered the  vacation  this  animal  took  a  year  prev- 
ious, when  it  eventually  traveled  nearly  three  hundred 
miles  across  country  before  they  ran  it  down.  Three 
ropes  now  encircled  it — over  horns,  on  a  fore  and  on 
a  hind  leg — then  they  lead  the  "onery"  little  beast  back 
through  the  Indian  village  to  the  stock  corrals. 

Open  contests  are  often  held  for  the  naming  of  ani- 
mals, "Sharkey"  was  selected  for  the  champion  buck- 
ing bull,  and  Henry  Vogt  for  his  close  Jersey  second. 
"Letta"  and  "Buck"  won  as  names  for  the  young  cow 
and  bull  buffaloes.  During  the  war  Buck  died.  Later 
a  war  baby  was  born — Letta  had  a  catteloe  calf —  sus- 
picion was  said  to  rest  on  Henry  Vogt. 

Earlier  that  morning  a  bunch  of  us,  mostly  members 
of  the  committee,  had  been  helping  unload  from  the 
cars  some  wild  range  longhorns  fresh  from  Laredo, 
Texas.  A  steer  knows  a  gate  when  he  sees  it. 
"Whoop'ee,"  and  the  entire  herd  was  stampeding 
straight  through  the  Indian  village,  a  wild  bellowing 
herd,  running  a  race  with  a  dust  storm  and  our  ponies 
alongside  at  breaknecking  speed.    Pandemonium  broke 


CORRAL  DUST 

loose  among  the  dogs ;  squaws  grabbed  up  the  younger 
children,  while  the  older  scudded  for  cover  amongst  the 
cottonwoods  and  tepees. 

"Head  'em  off,"  yelled  Sam  Thompson — and  *'head 
'em  off"  we  did,  but  some  went  through  the  nearest 
tent. 

"Let's  get  these  pets  into  the  corral,"  shouted  Bill 
Switzler,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  gate  swung  in  on 
a  dilatory  steer  and  they  were  corralled. 

Wild  Bill  Switzler  lives  most  of  the  time  up  in  the 
Horse  Heaven  country.  The  rest  of  the  time  he  lives 
on  a  horse,  when  he  is  not  running  the  Ferry  at  Uma- 
tilla. Horse  Heaven  country?  What,  never  heard  of 
it?  Well,  there  is  lots  of  country,  wonderful  unbroken 
country  in  Oregon  and  the  West  you  haven't  heard  of, 
besides  the  John  Day  and  Harney  Country  you  already 
have  heard  about.  There's  Camas  Prairie  of  the  In- 
dians, with  its  millions  of  feet  of  virgin  timber  await- 
ing the  railroad — may  it  wait  long, — and  there's  Grant 
County  awaiting  settlement.  Which  leads  one  to 
wonder  why  we  Americans  don't  travel  at  home  a  bit 
and  get  acquainted  with  God's  country. 

The  way  through  Horse  Heaven  is  only  along  par- 
allel cattle  trails  with  drift  fences  ending  nowhere, 
where  man  is  scarce  and  the  bunchgrass  is  thick  and 
winter  shelter  and  feed  are  plentiful.  Here  the  ordin- 
ary wild  bunchgrass  grows  knee  high  to  a  tall 
Injun.  "Rolling  in  clover"  has  nothing  on  this 
for  an  equine  dream.  Here  herds  led  by  their  stallions 
practically  run  wild,  never  even  seen  by  man  sometimes 
for  many  months  at  a  time.  Horse  Heaven,  indeed, — 
you'll  find  it  marked  on  a  good  map  of  Oregon  and 
Washington  in  the  center  of  a  townless  fork  of  country 
between  the  Yakima  River  and  the  Columbia. 

37 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Here  Bill  Switzler,  an  all-round  range  man  has  a 
ranch  across  from  Umatilla  in  the  heart  of  the  Horse 
Heaven,  seventeen  miles.  Which  trail?  Take  any — 
there  are  hundreds — cattle  made  them.  They'll  all 
take  you  to  Bill's  ranch — or  beyond  it. 

The  wild  horses  used  in  the  wild  horse  race  at  the 
Round-Up  come  from  Wild  Bill's  ranch ;  Bill  and  his 
father  once  owned  twenty  thousand  head.  He  begins 
months  ahead  with  his  outfit  to  round  up  the  wildest 
from  their  retreats  far  from  the  haunts  of  man.  Bill 
had  just  come  in  with  a  wild  bunch.  There  they  are, 
safely  within  one  of  the  corrals,  shy,  fighting,  biting, 
kicking,  squealing,  cautious  and  cunning  as  the  coyotes 
with  whom  they  had  been  reared. 

The  director  of  competitive  events  had  called  for 
some  of  the  buckers,  as  they  were  still  trying  out  some 
of  the  buckaroos  in  the  arena.  There  they  all  were. 
In  the  next  corrals  to  the  wild  horse  band  were  the 
buckers  themselves,  including  famous  names  amongst 
their  number,  as  well  known  in  the  Northwest  as  Ty 
Cobb  or  Babe  Ruth.  Get  up  on  the  fence  or  ride  up 
closer  here  beside  tall,  slim  Bill  Ridings,  one  of  the 
wranglers ;  he'll  point  'em  out. 

"That  big,  heavy-built,  dark  sorrel.  Long  Tom,  is 
king  of  'em  all,"  drawls  Slim.  "Once  he  was  a  hard- 
working plow  horse,  till  someone  thought  he  could  ride 
'im.  He's  been  just  thinkin'  about  it  ever  since,  and 
so  have  a  lot  of  'em." 

"That  sorrel  mare  is  Whistling  Annie.  You  can  sure 
hear  the  wind  go  by  when  yer  on  her.  The  white  horse 
with  the  half  moon  circle  brand  on  his  left  flank  is  a 
good  un — that  means  a  bad  un,  get  me  ?  He's  Snake,  a 
sun-fishing  devil  and  one  of  the  hardest  to  wrangle; 
so's  Sledgehammer,  that  big  dapple  gray.   Last  year  at 

88 


CORRAL  DUST 

the  Round-Up  in  the  Friday  mornin',  old  Sledge  want- 
ed to  ride  himself,  so  he  just  chased  the  boy  right  ofif 
the  saddle  of  the  snubbing  horse  and  got  right  up  in 
the  saddle  himself,  but  the  judges  wouldn't  allow  it. 

"That  white-faced  black  un  is  Hot  Foot;  he  chills 
'em  when  he  stalls  skyward  and  then  volplanes  down. 
There's  Angel,  only  he  is  in  disguise,  and  that  there  is 
Midnight,  but  mostly  goodnight  to  those  who  think 
they  can  ride  him;  the  next  is  Bugs,  but  few  of  'em 
dare  scratch  'im.  Them  there's  Brown  Eyes  and  Bat- 
tling Nelson,  Sunfish  Mollie  'n'  Fuzzy  'n'  Rambling 
Sam  in  that  bunch,"  Bill  pointed  with  his  quirt.  "And 
in  that  other  corral  in  yonder  corner  is  Lightning 
Creek,  Rimrock,  Corkscrew  'n'  Desolation.  You  sure 
do  feel  lonely  on  him.  They  were  all  used  in  the  semi- 
finals last  year,  and  so  was  Bill  Hart,  over  there  under 
the  shade  of  that  willow.  Hughey  Strickland  showed 
Sundance  there  a  new  step,  though,  when  he  rode  him. 
That  feller  Black  Diamond — he's  sure  worth  his 
weight  in  gold  to  this  outfit. 

"See  that  hoss  with  his  eyes  closed,  sleepin'  like? 
That's  No-Name  because  the  Round-Up  ain't  got  no 
name  bad  enough  to  express  'im,  and  the  Round-Up's 
so  hard  put  to  it  to  find  one,  that  they're  even  willin' 
to  pay  the  feller  that  gits  a  worse  name  fer  him  than 
any  of  the  rest  of  the  bunch.  Name  'im  and  you  can 
have  'im,  I  says — he's  why  I'm  limping — lucky  fer  me 
he  wern't  shod." 

"The  chestnut  there  is  Unknown,  by  that  I  mean  it's 
what  he's  called,  but  we  know  him  hereabouts  all  right, 
and  so  we  do  old  Leatherneck  yonder, — he's  tough  as 
tripe.  But  say,  pard,  the  horse  licking  the  other's 
shoulder  's  You  Tell  Em — most  of  'em  can't,  after 
they've  patted  his  back.      And  say,  pard,  take  it  from 

89 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

me, — them  two  what's  together  now  right  here  by  this 
trough  sure  are  two  of  the  heaviest  buckers  that  I  ever 
did  see.  The  nigh  un's  I  Be  Damn  and  the  off  un's  U 
Be  Damn,  and  I'll  be " 

"Git  them  'cattle,'  "  yelled  Wild  Bill  as  he  rode  for 
some  of  the  wild  horses  to  be  wrangled,  with  Jess 
Brunn  and  other  wranglers  hot  after  him.  Come  on; 
let's  help  cut  out  this  "stufif." 

If  you  have  never  tried  to  cut  out  and  rope  some 
particular  wild  horses  out  of  a  stampeding  bunch,  rip- 
tearing  about  a  corral  in  a  cyclone  of  dust,  with  lar- 
iats, cowboys  and  fence  splinters  criss-crossing  in  all 
directions  like  a  Patagonian  williwaw  there  are  some 
thrills  left  for  you. 

Any  horse  you  may  think  you  want,  knows  it  as 
quick  as  you  do — human  mental  telepathy  has  nothing 
on  that  wild  cayuse.  As  quick  as  you  think  him,  he  will 
put  another  horse  or  more  between  you  and  him,  and 
always  maneuver  into  the  most  impossible  position  for 
your  rope  or  for  you  to  handle  it  after  you  get  it.  He'll 
dodge,  duck  and  disappear  in  the  herd.  Even  after  he 
is  roped,  particularly  if  by  the  neck,  he'll  fight  until  his 
wind  is  choked  ofif  which  is  bad  for  the  horse.  Then 
comes  getting  him  out  of  the  corral. 

I  well  remember  one  little  calico  cayuse  we  went 
after  that  morning. 

"Rope  him,  cowboy,  awful  wild,"  yelled  Ridings. 

"No  wild  horse,  it's  a  woman's  horse.  I  believe  you 
can  drive  him,"  chuckled  Wild  Bill  with  a  grin,  watch- 
ing from  his  saddle  by  the  gate.  "You  told  me  you 
wanted  'em  wild,  but  I  could  only  find  these  pets  for 
you,"  and  Bill  went  on  grinning. 

S-s-r-r-r !  went  Blancett's  rope,  but  the  little  cayuse's 
head  ducked  between  two  horses. 

90 


CORRAL  DUST 

"If  he'd  had  horns  I  shore'd've  'ad  him,"  smiled 
Dell  as  he  hauled  back  his  rope. 

"Good  'a  boy !"  called  Winnamucca  Jack,  the  Indian 
wrangler,  when  after  ten  m.inutes  in  the  choking,  blind- 
ing dust,  Dell  made  a  pretty  throw  and  the  calico 
"scrubtail"  was  roped. 

Few  phases  of  range  work  or  of  the  Round-Up  are 
more  risky  or  afford  a  greater  variety  of  inducement 
for  a  man  to  harness  up  to  a  life  insurance  policy  than 
the  gentle  art  of  wrangling  wild  horses.  The  men  who 
have  charge  of  rounding  up,  driving  in,  assisting  in  the 
cutting  out,  roping,  saddling  and  turning  the  animals 
back  to  range  are  known  as  wranglers.  Their  business 
is  to  know  the  location  or  drift  of  the  horses,  their 
habits  and  ways. 

On  a  cattle  ranch,  the  horses  to  be  used  in  the  day's 
work  by  the  cowboys  are  brought  from  range  or  pad- 
dock (and  a  paddock  may  be  several  miles  square) 
into  the  corral  in  the  early  morning,  by  the  wranglers. 
When  breakfast  is  finished,  there  is  no  time  lost  in 
"cutting  out"  the  horses  to  use  in  the  day's  work  and 
getting  at  it;  then  the  "stuff"  not  needed  is  at  once 
turned  back  into  the  range.  There  has  been  many  an 
unadvertised  bucking  contest  between  man  and  beast 
pulled  off  within  a  corral  during  morning  saddling  up. 

When  it  is  time  for  the  round-up  of  cattle  and  horses 
for  branding,  marking,  "cutting  out"  in  the  spring,  or 
for  the  fall  cutting  out  and  drive,  the  foreman  and  his 
outfit  of  cowboys  go  out  as  far  as  he  thinks  cattle 
would  go  for  water,  say  eight  or  ten  miles,  throws  out 
two  men  together  every  half  mile — strung  over  a  dis- 
tance of  perhaps  four  or  five  miles.  Everything  is  then 
driven  toward  a  common  objective,  generally,  but  not 
always,  towards  water.    This  is  a  round-up. 

91 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Then  comes  working  the  cattle  or  "cutting  out,"  the 
strays,  i.  c,  branded  cattle  of  other  owners,  or  "mave- 
ricks" which  are  the  unbranded  cattle  ;  separating  those 
they  want  from  those  they  do  not  want — the  others 
they  let  go  right  back  on  the  same  grass.  Say,  out  of  a 
herd  of  four  or  six  thousand,  there  might  be  eight  hun- 
dred or  a  thousand  which  did  not  belong  there.  When 
they  have  finished  working  the  bunch,  they  push  those 
belonging  on  that  range  back  again. 

Horses  always  run  on  the  range  in  bands  and  in- 
variably stay  in  the  same  band.  Even  if  there  are  a 
thousand  head  which  drink  at  the  same  water  hole, 
when  through,  the  entire  herd  disintegrates  to  their  re- 
spective bands.  The  head  stallion  is  monarch  of  his 
band,  and  if  a  mare  lags  she  is  not  likely  to  again,  for 
with  the  swiftness  of  the  wind  he  will  round  her  up, 
likely  as  not  biting  a  piece  right  out  of  her. 

Now  on  a  round-up,  which  in  the  old  days  or  on  a 
few  big  ranches  today,  lasts  a  month  or  so,  the  range 
work  was  exceptionally  exhausting  to  the  horses. 
Sometimes  a  single  rider  would  use  a  half  dozen  differ- 
ent horses  or  more  in  a  single  day.  Consequently  a 
large  herd,  or  band  of  horses  was  required.  The 
bands  of  saddle  horses  used  on  a  round-up  are  called 
"cavies"  and  are  used  every  day.  On  a  round-up  in 
the  '80's  in  Washington  where  the  cavy  comprised 
some  six  or  eight  cavies — fifty  to  eighty  in  each — the 
whole  number  totalled  some  six  hundred  horses. 

These  horses  were  in  charge  of  the  wranglers,  who 
were  divided  into  a  day  and  a  night  shift,  for  wrang- 
lers during  the  round-up  which  was  on  the  move, 
stayed  with  the  horses  all  night  and  brought  them  into 
the  corral  in  the  morning.  Each  outfit  had  its  "chuck- 
wagon,"  in  which  food  was  carried  and  all  the  appur- 

92 


CORRAL  DUST 

tenances  for  cooking  it.  Each  outfit  was  under  its  own 
foreman  until  in  the  saddle  for  the  day's  work,  when 
they  were  then  under  the  head  foreman. 

It  seems  likely  that  the  term,  "wrangler,"  comes 
from  cai'eranyo — the  Spanish  for  the  man  who  had 
the  care  of  the  saddle  horses.  East  of  the  Columbia 
River  the  term  "wrango"  or  "rango"  was  used.  From 
"cavo"  the  term  "cavy"  was  undoubtedly  derived, 
while  "wrango"  was  undoubtedly  derived  from 
"rango,"  from  which  in  turn  the  anglicized  ultimate 
of  er  was  added  with  an  /  and  we  have  the  range  term 
of  "wrangler."  Also  it  is  not  illogical  to  assume  that 
"rancho,"  "range,"  "rancher,"  "ranger"  are  all  deriva- 
tives of  the  same  root  origin. 

When  the  rounding-up  outfits  are  on  the  move,  a 
temporary  rope  corral  is  provided.  A  rope  corral  is 
sometimes  made  of  a  rope  simply  laid  off  the  ground 
on  some  sagebrush,  being  safer  it  is  said  than  some 
fence  corrals  in  keeping  the  horses  in.  The  horses  are 
broken  to  a  rope  corral  by  being  allowed  to  try  to  es- 
cape from  a  fence  corral  over  a  piece  of  rope  stretched 
at  a  certain  height  across  the  open  gateway.  They 
rarely  jump  clear  of  a  rope,  which  gives  them  some 
nasty  spills  and  they  learn  their  lesson. 

Horses  are  trained  for  special  work — hence  a  good 
"ropin'  hoss"  might  not  be  a  good  "cut  hoss,"  used  for 
cutting  out  cattle  from  the  peratha,  the  bunch  of  cattle 
which  are  being  "cut  into"  for  the  purpose  of  being 
"cut  out." 

The  Round-Up  has  the  hardest  buckers  to  be  found 
anywhere  and  are  sought  everywhere  from  Nev^  Mex- 
ico to  Canada;  for  real  top-notchers,  like  Long  Tom, 
for  instance,  fabulous  prices  are  paid.  The  bucker  U 
Tell  'Em  was  originally  bought  by  his  owner  for  forty 

93 


"PAWIN',  HOOFIN'  AND  RARIN'  TER  GO !" 

Even  the  empty  bleachers  at  the  morning  tryouts  of  sorne  of 
the  newer  horses  during  the  week  before  the  big  show  witness 
some  bucking  events  which  are  equal  to  many  of  those  in  the 
arena.  In  this  case  Henry  Warren  is  riding  true  to  form  on 
the  terror  Bearcat,  true  to  his  name,  he  is  even  bent  on  scratching 
the  wrangler  who  has  failed  to  make  a  quick  getaway  after 
pulling  the  gunnysack  blind. 

The  rules  of  the  Round-Up  for  the  cowboy's  bucking  contest 
for  the  championship  of  the  world,  prescribe  that  the  riders  for 
each  day  shall  be  determined  by  lot,  that  is  they  group  them,  so 
as  to  efficiently  balance  and  distribute  the  contesting  on  each  of 
the  three  days ;  that  the  cowboys  are  to  ride  on  horses  to  be 
furnished  by  the  management  and  the  riders  to  draw  for  mounts. 
Not  less  than  six  riders  are  to  be  chosen  on  the  third  day  to  ride 
in  the  semi-finals  and  not  less  than  three  to  be  chosen  from  the 
six  to  ride  in  the  finals. 

Each  contestant  must  ride  as  often  as  the  judges  may  deem 
it  necessary  to  determine  the  winner.  The  riding  is  to  be  done 
with  chaps,  spurs  and  sombrero  but  no  quirt,  with  a  plain  halter 
and  rope,  one  end  of  the  rope  free,  all  riding  slick  and  no  chang- 
ing hands  on  the  halter  rope  is  allowed.  No  saddle  fork  over 
fifteen  and  a  half  inches  is  permitted  and  when  the  great  show 
opens  and  the  first  bucker  is  wrangled  and  the  rider  is  all  set, 
it's— tighten  the  cinch,  take  off  the  blind,  let  'er  buck  in  front, 
let  'er  buck  behind. 


W.  S.  Bowman 


'Pawin',  Hoofin'  and  Rarin'  ter  Go" 


SADDLE  HIM  OR  BUST 

Here  is  one  seat  not  taken  at  the  Round-Up — it  has  been  re- 
served for  you.  It  shows  how  they  wrangle  a  bad  one  at 
Pendleton.  No  more  striking  illustration  of  the  entire  art  and 
technique  of  wrangling  could  be  obtained  though  composed  with 
the  free  brush  of  a  painter — the  balance  of  the  composition,  the 
centralized  interest,  the  action,  the  story  element  is  all  there. 

The  bucker's  dangerous  forestriking  made  it  too  risky  for  men 
on  foot  to  handle  his  snubbing  rope,  so  they  brought  the  little 
snubbing  horse  into  play  and  with  the  rope  have  snubbed  the 
outlaw's  nose  close  to  the  saddle  horn,  one  man  beneath  the 
horse's  head  handling  the  play  or  pay  of  the  snubbing  rope.  With 
a  wild  leap  the  fighting,  biting  demon  endeavors  to  reach  the 
nervy  wrangler  in  the  saddle.  He  in  turn,  one  foot  out  of  stirrup, 
as  a  precaution,  seizes  his  antagonist  in  the  most  approved  fashion 
by  an  ear  and  is  successfully  tucking  the  blind  under  the  further 
haltet  leather.  The  blinded  man-fighter  will  now  probably  be 
manageable  until  the  saddle  lying  near  him,  is  cinched  up  and 
the  rider  ensconced  in  it. 

In  the  background  on  old  Nellie,  Herbert  Thompson,  assistant 
livestock  director,  and  one  of  the  pick-up  men,  who  must  be  expert 
horsemen,  "stands  by"  ready  to  "take  up"  the  horse  at  the 
judge's  pistol  w'hich  signals  the  ride  is  ended.  Star  riders  like 
Caldwell,  always  help  the  pick-up  men  by  handing  over 
their  halter  rope  as  they  ride  alongside.  In  some  big  shows  in 
Winnipeg  for  instance,  straight  wrangling  is  done  away  with, 
the  horse  being  saddled  and  the  rider  mounting  in  a  chute  from 
which  he  debouches  into  the  arena  and  thus  is  done  away  with 
one  of  the  hazardous,  but  most  picturesque  phases  of  range  life. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

dollars,  not  knowing  how  he  could  buck,  and  sold  to 
the  Round-Up  for  five  hundred,  an  offer  of  eight  hun- 
dred coming  in  a  few  minutes  too  late  after  the  deal 
was  closed. 

The  Round-Up  buckers  are  given  the  best  care  which 
also  means  given  a  full  free  life  on  the  range,  and  in 
winter  no  matter  under  what  difficulties  or  cost  are 
given  hay;  but  they  are  never  ridden  except  at  the 
bucking  contests. 

Sometimes  the  buckers  take  it  into  their  heads  to 
break  range  and  travel,  and  more  than  once  the  live- 
stock director  has  had  to  send  out  a  "posse"  of  expert 
trackers  to  run  them  down.  The  last  break  of  this  sort 
was  when  the  pony,  donkey,  and  Angel  led  by  Ram- 
bling Sam  escaped  over  the  hills  and  far  away  before 
they  were  rounded-up. 

The  wrangler,  in  a  way,  is  the  stable  man  of  the 
range,  the  caretaker  of  the  horses  in  use,  and  about 
the  corrals  and  stables  of  the  Round-Up  at  Pendleton 
one  finds  some  old  experts  at  handling.  Fred  Stickler, 
who  has  been  barn  boss  for  many  a  Round-Up,  has 
that  peculiar  inborn  knack  of  not  only  handling  skit- 
tish range  horses  in  the  stables,  but  of  walking  with 
impunity  right  amongst  a  corral  full  of  wild  horses 
where  many  a  man  would  be  kicked  and  stamped  upon. 
Fred  has  a  quiet  manner  of  gentling  and  speaking  to 
them  which  they  understand,  and  as  one  rancher  re- 
marked, "without  any  fuss  or  feathers." 

Some  of  the  best  wranglers  in  the  country  like  Bill 
Ridings  and  Jess  Brunn  have  a  chance  to  show  their 
caution,  cleverness,  understanding  of  horses  and  met- 
tle in  the  arena  during  the  contests  in  this  he-man's 
game,  when  the  dangerous,  wild,  squealing,  man-fight- 
ing buckers  are  brought  in.     Being  trampled  upon  is 

96 


CORRAL  DUST 

one  of  the  least  of  wrangling  evils,  though  Missouri 
Slim,  one  of  the  wranglers  sitting  on  that  bale  of  feed 
over  there,  has  removed  a  boot  and  is  nursing  a  badly 
bruised  foot. 

"Fixin'  up  yer  foot?"  dryly  comments  a  cowboy  as 
he  dismounts,  "Wastin'  good  liniment  on  that  foot!" 


97 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

After  the  long  shadows  change  the  golden  valley  to 
night,  you  wander  under  the  clustering  lights  of  Main 
Street,  where  the  crowds  surge  in  that  orderly,  happy, 
holiday  spirit  for  which  the  Round-Up  stands.  Dur- 
ing Round-Up  Pendleton  harks  back  a  generation, 
turns  back  the  calendar  a  few  decades,  shifts  its 
clothes  and  steps  into  the  life  from  which  it  has  but 
just  crossed  over  the  threshold.  Pendleton  does  this 
with  such  an  easy  grace  and  naturalness  that  while  the 
Round-Up  is  a  great  community  drama  it  is  also  a  re- 
enaction  of  the  verve  and  urge  of  its  pioneer  spirit,  and 
literally  reeks  with  the  atmosphere  of  an  old  frontier 
town.  Although  any  time  the  visitor  may  feel  the 
Round-Up  spirit,  see  fragments  of  its  setting  or  some 
of  its  participants,  booted,  chapped  or  blanketed  on  the 
streets,  it  is  hard  for  him  to  realize  that  for  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  days  Pendleton  gives  itself  over  to  the 
busy  workaday  life  of  ranch  and  industry  and  that  it 
is  only  for  about  seven  days  out  of  the  year  it  lives 
again  the  life  of  the  old  West  in  such  a  vivid  manner — 
perhaps  it  is  still  harder  for  the  visitor  to  understand 
why  it  doesn't. 

The  old  original  settlement  of  Pendleton  was  called 
Marshall  after  a  gentleman  of  the  early  days  who,  it 

98 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

was  said,  could  make  a  nickel  look  like  a  tidal  wave 
and  who  ran  a  roUicky  place  at  that  old  stage-stop  a 
few  miles  west  of  the  present  city.  This  was  after- 
wards known  as  Swift's  Crossing — because  Swift  the 
carpenter  lived  there.  Things  and  places  hereabouts 
or  in  any  frontier  country  the  world  over  go  by  the 
names  of  people  who  wore  or  made  the  things  or  lived 
in  the  places  or  because  of  certain  happenings,  condi- 
tions, people  or  things  connected  with  them,  hence — 
"Stetson"  hat,  chapps,  Camas  Prairie,  Grizzly,  Crooked 
River,  Wagon  Tire,  Happy  Canyon,  Half  Way, 
Swift's  Crossing,  and  so  on. 

It  was  at  Swift's  Crossing  that  they  changed  horses 
between  Cayuse  and  Umatilla — you  can  see  the  spot 
now  down  river  a  bit  where  the  Umatilla  makes  a  turn 
and  the  old  road  takes  steep  up  grade — just  below  the 
new  State  Hospital.  Later  Swift's  Crossing  moved 
up  to  Pendleton,  at  least  its  inhabitants  did;  today 
there's  not  a  vestige  of  a  habitation  left  on  its  old  site. 
So  then  the  old  Pendleton  Hostelry,  the  first  hotel  in 
Pendleton,  became  the  stage-stop  and  Dave  Horn 
and  other  stage  drivers  changed  horses  here,  where 
before  they  had  only  pulled  up  for  passengers  and  mail. 

The  center  of  Pendleton,  which  took  its  name — and 
thereby  hangs  a  story — from  Senator  Pendleton  of 
Ohio,  was  marked,  the  old-timers  will  tell  you,  when 
Moses  Goodwin,  whose  wife  Aura  was  known  as  the 
mother  of  Pendleton,  drove  in  a  stake  on  his  home- 
stead, when  first  surveyed,  at  the  corner  of  the  block 
where  the  First  National  Bank  now  stands,  and  gave 
this  site  to  the  county. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "is  where  the  courthouse  is  to  be" 
and  there  it  stood  for  many  years,  and  this  corner  is 
now  the  center  of  the  city.    The  reason  the  city  is  not 

99 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Jaid  off  due  north  and  south  is  because  Moses  Goodwin, 
when  he  laid  the  foundations  for  the  old  Pendleton 
Hotel,  did  not  set  it  straight.  The  lines  of  the  new 
hotel,  an  up-to-date,  six-story  structure,  are  on  the  ex- 
act site  of  the  old  tavern. 

For  three  days  now,  the  contestants  have  been  step- 
ping into  the  American  National  Bank  to  sign  up  on 
the  Round-Up  entry  books.  This  year  there  are  over 
two  hundred  palefaces  and  over  one  hundred  redmen. 
But  tomorrow  is  the  first  day  of  the  Great  Show.  So 
let's  turn  in  here  and  climb  the  steep  flight  of  stairs  to 
the  committee's  headquarters.  It  is  a  big  barn  of  a 
room ;  you  see  it  is  crowded  with  practically  the  entire 
buckaroo  "outfit," — cowboys,  cowgirls,  Indians  and 
occasionally  a  Mexican — as  swarthy,  orderly  and  pic- 
turesque a  crowd  as  you  could  find.  The  man  on  that 
table  above  the  sombreros  in  the  upper  strata  of  tobac- 
co smoke  is  one  of  the  committee.  He's  calling  the 
names  of  the  entrants  for  the  events.  See,  each  in 
turn  steps  up  and  draws  from  the  broad-brimmed  hat 
the  number  of  the  horse  that  he  is  to  attempt  to  ride. 

Watch  "Tex"  Daniels,  that  rangy,  powerfully  built 
buckaroo  worming  through  the  crowd.  He's  drawing 
now. 

"Tex  Daniels  rides  Long  Tom!"  is  announced. 
"Wow !  Wow !"  and  the  banterings  from  the  crowd 
show  that  Long  Tom  is  not  only  a  well-known  horse, 
but  is  the  bugbear  of  the  riders  and  king  of  the  buckers. 

"George  Attebury  on  McKay,  Ed  McCarthy  on 
Light  Foot,  Fred  Heide  on  Hot  Foot,  Art  Acord  on 
Butter  Creek,  Hoot  Gibson  on  Mrs.  Wiggs,"  so  the 
drawing  goes  on,  and  you  become  familiar  with  the 
names  and  faces  of  the  greatest  contingent  of  experts 
in  frontier  sports  to  be  found  on  the  globe.     Among 

100 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

those  here  just  now  are  Hazel  Walker,  Blanche  Mc- 
Caughey,  Minnie  Thompson,  and"Babe"  Lee;  there  are 
John  Baldwin,  Armstrong,  Dell  Blancett,  and  Gerking, 
also  Lucian  Williams  and  other  Indians,  all  wonderful 
riders,  and  many  others  among  the  contestants,  from 
California  to  the  Dakotas,  from  Mexico  to  Canada. 
There  are  a  number  new  to  Pendleton,  but  there's  Mc- 
Cormack  and  Bob  Cavin,  besides  many  others  who 
rank  high  among  the  kings  and  Cjueens  of  reinland, 
whom  you  will  have  a  better  chance  to  meet  tomorrow 
in  the  Round-Up  Grounds  at  the  tryouts  and  at  the 
elimination  contests  in  the  morning. 

Of  course  there  were  a  few  saloons  here  as  every- 
where and  many  of  the  boys  in  the  old  days  turned 
into  one  or  another  of  the  bars  and  their  pool  tables 
and  whiled  away  many  an  evening  at  The  Idle  Hour. 
But,  now,  although  an  occasional  tailor  may  inquire 
of  the  successful  cattle  king  whether  he  wants  the  hip 
pocket  of  his  new  suit  cut  for  a  pint  or  a  quart,  while 
the  shadow  of  the  dry  season  of  prohibition  in  the 
Northwest  is  probably  no  more  of  a  total  eclipse  than 
in  other  parts  of  the  country,  about  the  only  way,  it 
is  rumored,  of  getting  a  little  reflected  light  is  to 
reach  down  into  a  badger  hole  and  accidentally  find  it. 

How  usage  of  terms  is  limited  to  their  application 
and  localized  by  the  young,  the  untraveled,  or  those 
without  the  background  of  literature  and  history,  is 
evidenced  in  the  case  of  a  Pendleton  schoolboy,  who 
recently  in  the  course  of  his  literary  studies  was  ex- 
plaining a  portion  of  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake.  "Fitz- 
James  arose  and  sought  the  moonshine  pure,"  he  read, 
then  seriously,  he  paraphrased — "Fitz-James  went  out 
and  found  a  keg  of  moonshine  on  the  beach." 

It  all  takes  one  back  to  stirring  border  days,  but  the 

101 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

symbol  conspicuously  absent  is  the  six-shooter  or  a 
pair  of  'em,  lazing  from  the  flapless  western  holster. 
There  are  a  few  around,  but  out  of  sight.  There's 
enough  of  gun-play  from  grandstand  and  bleacher  in 
approval  of  the  riding  in  the  arena,  at  night  in  Happy 
Canyon,  or  in  appreciation  of  the  dance-hall  band  to 
lend  color,  or  to  satisfy  any  small  boy.  The  ammuni- 
tion is  quite  harmless,  unless  you  try  to  use  the  gun 
barrel  as  a  telescope  when  the  trigger's  pulled. 

There  are  probably  more  guns  packed  by  law-abiding 
American  citizens  today  than  is  appreciated.  But 
there  is  at  least  one  section  of  Oregon,  not  far  from 
Grant  County  and  the  John  Day  Country,  where  they 
aren't  satisfied  with  carrying  only  one.  This  was  strik- 
ingly evidenced  in  the  case  of  a  shooting  scrape  which 
was  recently  brought  before  the  court.  The  witness 
was  testifying  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that  it  was 
a  habit  to  tote  guns. 

"Is  it  the  custom  for  people  where  you  live  to  carry 
guns?"  he  was  asked. 

"Yes,  sir-r-ree." 

"More  than  one?" 

"Yes,  sir-r-ree." 

"How  many?" 

"Well,  sometimes  mebbe  I  tote  two  'n'  sometimes 
mebbe  I  tote  three." 

"What  for?" 

"Well,  I  dun'no,  but  they  all  do — mebbe  I  might 
see  a  coyote  or  sumthin'." 

The  truth  was,  it  is  a  habit  from  childhood,  a  relic 
of  border  days.  The  railroad  doesn't  go  through  there 
yet.  They  just  don't  think  they  are  dressed  up  with- 
out them. 

In  many  corners,  you  find  a  last  remnant  of  the  old 
102 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

frontier  life,  of  those  days  of  the  survival  of  the  fit- 
test when  it  was  most  unwise  to  hold,  and  often  dan- 
gerous to  apply  an  impractical  theory.  In  a  country 
built  by  an  empirically-acting  generation,  everything 
had  to  relate  and  adapt  itself  to  the  positive  conditions 
to  be  faced  there. 

These  border  days  imposed  a  peculiarly  practical 
application  even  of  religion  to  daily  life.  Within  the 
memory  of  some  Pendletonians  church  hours  were  ac- 
commodated to  horse  races.  More  than  one  dance  was 
given  in  a  saloon  to  raise  money  to  furnish  a  ^hurch. 
Even  pleasure  was  not  always  allowed  to  interfere  with 
religion.  Once  the  superintendent  of  the  union  Sun- 
day school  kept  his  expectant  flock  of  lambs  and  angel- 
children  impatiently  waiting  for  a  considerable  space 
of  time.  Upon  his  tardy  appearance,  he  confidently  as 
well  as  confidentially  remarked,  as  though  the  reason 
for  the  delay  was  a  most  worthy  one,  that  "the  poker 
game  I  was  sitting  in  on  was  so  plumb  interesting,  I 
couldn't  break  away  from  the  boys." 

Now  turn  into  that  Pendleton  institution  of  human 
ingenuity,  Happy  Canyon,  which  means  a  spot  right 
in  the  heart  of  Pendleton  where  every  one  can  com- 
plete a  day  of  frontier  fun.  The  main  structure  was 
completed  in  1916  at  a  cost  of  twelve  thousand  dollars, 
the  bleachers  having  a  seating  capacity  of  about  five 
thousand  people.  Out  in  the  arena  you  see  the  rip- 
roaring  life  of  the  range  in  its  fullness,  and  at  its  best, 
but  in  Happy  Canyon  you  see,  drawn  more  vividly 
than  any  pen  or  brush  can  depict,  the  life  of  the  fron- 
tier town. 

If  you  follow  the  Umatilla  down  from  Pendleton, 
it  will  take  you  to  where  nature  has  sculptured  out  a 
wide  defile  before  it  broadens  into  the  prairie.  Today 

103 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

a  store  and  three  or  four  houses  called  Nolin  nestle 
here.  This  little  hidden-away  spot,  in  the  days  of  the 
stage  coach  and  pony  express,  was  the  most  fertile  spot 
of  the  surrounding  country,  a  veritable  little  Garden  of 
Eden  with  its  vegetable  lands  and  orchards.  Here  in  this 
tucked-away  paradise,  many  a  dance  was  pulled  off,  not 
to  mention  other  episodes,  when  the  crowd  rode  in  to 
the  ranch  house  of  one  or  the  other  of  the  settlers. 

The  fiddler  and  the  doctor  were  two  of  the  most  im- 
portant adjuncts  to  the  community  life  of  the  frontier. 
Of  course,  it  was  possible  to  get  along  without  the 
doctor,  but  the  fiddler  was  indispensable,  and  as  much 
in  demand  as  ice  cream  at  a  church  picnic.  It  was 
often  necessary  to  scour  the  country  for  hundreds  of 
miles  to  locate  and  engage  the  music.  Then  there  was 
his  side-partner,  the  "caller."  Although  month  in  and 
month  out  the  dancers  stepped  through  the  figures  of 
the  quadrille,  it  was  about  as  useless  to  hold  a  dance 
without  a  caller,  as  to  brand  a  "critter"  without  an 
iron. 

How  they  did  "hop  to  it"  to  the  fiddle  of  "Happy 
Jack"  Morton  and  the  resonant  calling  of  Jimmie 
Hackett's — 

"Honors  to  your  partners. 

Yes,  honors  to  the  left, 

Swing  that  left  hand  lady  round 

And  all  promenade." 

Then  the  midnight  supper,  and  after  the  tables 
groaned  less  heavily  under  the  sumptuous  "muck-a- 
muck," on  again  whirled  the  dance.  It  was  "al-a-man 
{a  la  viain)  left"  and  "Sasshay  and  swing  your  part- 
ners," and  the  other  fellow's  too.  Then  each  "boy" 
with  all  the  strut  and  grace  of  an  old  gamecock,  with 
a  scratch  or  two  and  a  drag  of  his  high-heeled  boots 

104 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

on  the  floor,  a-cavorting  and  a-bobbing  naively,  did  his 
prettiest  to  outvie  old  Chanticleer.  What  with  the 
ever  onward  swing  of  the  quadrille,  spiced  with  an 
occasional  wink  of  "red  eye,"  the  party,  though  the 
men  were  down  to  shirt  sleeves,  would  begin  to  get 
pretty  well  "het  up."  Even  the  old  fiddler  now  roped  in 
a  few  maverick  notes  and  skipped  a  bar  or  two,  and 
"Onery  Missouri"  Joe  didn't  want  to  "know  why," 
when  the  big  paw  of  a  sheepherder  left  its  black  im- 
print just  above  the  waistline  of  the  new  "tarltan  of 
his  little  prairie  chicken." 

"Sass-shay  all  round.     Promenade  to  your  seats." 

Dawn  would  be  stealing  over  the  horizon.  Most  of 
the  guests  rode,  it  might  be  just  a  nearby  twenty  miles, 
or  it  might  be  over  the  country  a  bit,  fifty  or  sixty. 

There  would  also  be  he-nights  in  that  little  gulch 
with  only  the  males  rounded  up.  Then  the  stepping 
would  be  high  as  well  as  lively,  and  they  say — well, 
no  wonder  they  called  it  Happy  Canyon ;  and  no  won- 
der when  the  Round-Up  staged  the  evening  show  of  the 
frontier  town,  they  named  it  after  the  settlement  in 
the  halcyon  days  of  the  gulch,  and  made  much  of  the 
program  in  replica  of  its  "goin's  on"  and  reproduced 
as  well  the  canyon  walls  and  snow-capped  mountains 
behind  it. 

For  the  time  being  you  are  in  a  little  frontier  world 
of  fifty  years  ago.  You  look  out  from  the  bleachers  on 
its  "Main  Street,"  backed  by  the  saloon,  Chinese  laun- 
dry, millinery  shop,  a  few  smaller  shacks,  and  the  hotel 
all  bedecked  with  signs  as  witty  as  they  are  crude.  The 
hotel  is  an  actual  replica  of  the  old  Villard  house,  one 
of  Pendleton's  early  pioneer  hostelries. 

Every  phase  of  the  town  of  the  days  of  Kit  Carson, 
Buffalo  Bill,  "Peg  Leg"  Smith,  and  old  "Hank"  Cap- 

105 


A  PIONEER  OF  THE  OLD  WEST 

A  Type  of  Those  Who  Helped  Cement  the  Great  Northwest 
Into  Our  National  Body  Politic 

The  Pilgrim  was  the  outstanding  figure  on  Europe's  first 
frontier  of  Atlantic  America,  the  Pioneer  of  the  Old  West  is 
the  outstanding  character  on  Europe's  last  frontier,  the  Pacific 
United  States.  The  Mayflower  was  the  argosy  which  carried 
the  American  Republic,  and  Capt.  Gray's  Columbia  an  ark  of 
covenant  which  extended  its  foundations  and  carried  its  laws  and 
life  into  the  Orient. 

The  old  time  pioneer,  typified  the  adventurous  spirit  of  our 
restless  race:  he  typified  the  urge,  the  expression  of  that  ever- 
moving  dynamic  force  we  call  human  progress — the  under- 
standing, control  and  right  use  by  man  of  nature  and  its  forces. 

The  vast  areas  of  the  Pioneer's  El  Dorado  have  now  been 
mapped,  rivers  whose  surfaces  were  scarce  alien-disturbed,  save 
by  the  Indian's  paddle  or  a  salmon's  leap,  now  are  harnessed  to 
mill  and  canning  factory;  lairs  of  the  wild  things  have  given 
way  to  cities,  forests  to  cleared  lands,  prairies  of  bunchgrass  to 
teeming  counties  of  grain,  the  lone  square-rigger  and  clipper 
ship  of  Massachusetts  Bay  and  Manhattan  Island  no  longer 
"Round  the  Horn"  and  have  given  way  to  fleets  of  modern 
turbine  Leviathans. 

We  vision  the  slight  figure  of  the  pioneer,  now  sitting  silently  on 
his  horse  or  standing  thoughtfully  beside  his  ox  cart.  His  journey 
is  done,  but  his  eyes  are  turned  toward  the  light  still  farther 
West.  Whether  he  came  as  explorer,  missionary,  rancher,  cow- 
boy, hunter,  trader,  teacher,  artisan  or  intellectual,  through  his 
far-seeing  vision,  intrepid  faith,  undaunted  courage  and  positive 
character  he  has  handed  to  us,  the  Nation,  this  Territory  of  the 
Northwest,  so  vast,  so  packed  with  riches,  so  girded  with  high- 
ways of  trade,  so  filled  with  chosen  peoples  that  it  staggers  the 
imagination.  The  pioneer  of  the  Old  West  has  left  us  indeed  a 
vast  heritage — but  also  a  vast  responsibility. 

The  new  West  is  the  high  school  of  an  advancing  democ- 
racy. It  is  the  geographic  position  from  which  we  obtain  our 
moral,  religious,  and  psychological  viewpoint  of  Asia.  Hawaii 
is  the  key  to  the  Pacific ;  the  Philippine  group  is  the  doorway  to 
Asia;  China,  India,  Japan  and  their  Islands  of  the  sea  have 
turned  their  faces  usward,  and  have  set  their  feet  on  our  shores. 
We  have  already  entered  the  gates  of  the  Oldest  World — the 
Orient;    our  destiny  is  Pacificward. 

The  Northwest  is  still  a  giant  in  its  needs,  but  also  in  its  pos- 
sibilities. Puget  Sound  is  two  steamer  days  nearer  China  than 
San  Francisco  because  of  the  curvature  of  the  earth  and  five  hun- 
dred miles  nearer  Chicago  by  rail.  Puget  Sound  is  destined  to 
be  the  Great  American  Gateway  to  the  Far  East,  for  trade  like 
water  takes  the  channel  of  least  resistance.  Portland  by  canal 
connection  and  harbor  developments  should  form  an  integral 
part  of  this  great  outlet  of  the  resources  of  the  Northwest  and 
beyond.  Providence  has  placed  the  Northwest  geographically  in 
the  Zone  of  World  Power. 


By  Charles  Wellington  Furlong 

A  Pioneer  of  the  Old  West 


Type  of  the  Manhood  and  Womanhood  of  the  Range 


TYPES  OF  THE  MANHOOD  AND  WOMANHOOD 
OF  THE  RANGE 

The  buckaroo  is  a  cowboy  who  can  ride — and  then  some.  No 
pair  of  contestants  on  the  Round-Up  lists  stand  out  more  definitely 
as  strong  types  of  the  range  or  played  the  all-round  game  longer 
or  with  a  better  spirit  than  the  late  Dell  Blancett  and  his  wife 
Bertha  Blancett,  who  has  now  retired  from  the  contests. 

They  had  competed  in  the  Round-Up  since  its  inception  until 
we  entered  the  world  war.  But  we  didn't  move  fast  enough  in 
that  contest  for  Dell,  so  he  joined  the  Canadian  Cavalry  in  the 
great  war  for  civilization  and  now  lies  vnith  the  other  heroes 
under  the  poppies  of  Flanders  Fields. 

The  American  range  man  and  the  range  woman,  designated  by 
that  picturesque  title  "cowboy"  and  "cowgirl"  have  no  prototype, 
any  more  than  has  that  great,  epic,  pioneer  movement  which  re- 
sulted in  the  settling  of  the  West.  That  West  bore  and  bred  in 
the  cowboy  type,  a  character,  a  point  of  view  and  a  soul  with  a 
timbre  quite  his  own. 

His  lonely  life  in  the  old  days  on  the  plains,  when  he  had 
often  only  his  herd  to  sing  to  or  only  the  coyotes  to  sing  to  him, 
made  him  contemplative,  introspective,  strikingly  individualistic, 
at  times  a  bit  triste  and  occasionally  a  bit  "onery."  Normally 
he  is  quiet,  generous,  courageous,  conservative,  exceptionally  mod- 
est, loyal  in  his  friendships  and  with  a  keen  original  sense  of 
humor,  yet  he  is  capable  of  great  recklessness  and  daring  and 
not  a  man  to  trifle  with. 

He  is  a  son  of  contrasts — in  the  day  under  a  blistering  burning 
sun,  at  night  under  the  cold  bite  of  darkness; — a  full  belly  one 
week,  a  flat  belly  the  next,  monotonous  days  suddenly  turned  to 
hours  of  utmost  excitement;  long  vigils  under  these  conditions 
generally  far  from  the  centers  of  population,  broken  only  by  the 
seldom  occasions  in  town  often  with  a  wild  let-loose  of  repres- 
sion. Most  of  his  similes,  adages  and  comparisons  in  life  are 
distinctive  and  local  in  color,  taken  from  the  life  he  lives  and 
its  environment.  He  has  an  inherent  deep-lying  chivalry,  but 
while  he'll  ride  fifty  miles  each  way  in  the  saddle  to  spend  a  few 
formal  hours  with  a  pretty  girl,  he'll  ride  two  hundred  to  run 
down  a  horse  thief. 

We  were  ridin'  along  homeward  one  night  below  the  lowest 
river  bench  in  the  Madison  Valley — "Scuttle,"  my  pal  Rob  Swan 
and  I,  chapps  to  chapps,  you  knoW  the  feel.  I  had  seen  Scuttle 
shoot  pieces  of  broken  glass  no  bigger  than  a  nickel  and  then  pul- 
verize the  smaller  bits  with  a  "twenty-two"  against  the  twilight 
that  evening.  Now  the  moon  was  half -set  and  a  thin  mist  hung 
in  the  valley  bottom. 

The  Whitney  outfit  had  been  operating  up  from  the  Jackson 
Hole  Country,  ten  thousand  reward  had  been  offered  and  they 
were  now  reported  hereabouts.  What's  the  chances  I  asked 
Scuttle  of  the  sheriff's  posse  getting  them. 

"Well  mebbee  they  will,  but  more'n  likely  they  won't." 

We  jogged  along  for  sometime  the  only  sound  the  soft  putter 
of  hoofs,  the  retch  of  saddle  leathers  and  rub  of  chapps,  then 
Scuttle  broke  the  silence. 

"Say  pard,  d'ye  know  I've  been  thinkin'  about  them  'sassins — 
they  ain't  men,  'sassins  what  I  call  'em,  and  d'ye  know,  that 
mor'n  likely  the  feller  what  gits  'em  meb'U  be  some  ord'nary 
kind'er  cuss,  just  like  me." 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

linger,  and  others  is  shown.  In  it  men  of  the  cow-camp 
and  from  many  of  the  remote  Oregon  towns  play  their 
part  in  such  a  natural  way,  that  you  in  the  bleachers 
forget  you  are  sitting  on  the  soft  side  of  a  board. 
Here  ranger,  Indian  fighter,  cowboy,  and  sheriff  are  off 
duty,  but  hotel  proprietor,  barkeeper,  and  John  China- 
man are  decidedly  on.  It  is  a  drama  in  which  many 
of  these  players  are  in  reality  the  characters  they  por- 
tray. Not  even  a  rehearsal  is  held.  The  "boys"  are 
simply  told  what  is  expected  of  them  and  when  they 
are  to  do  it.  The  stage  coach  dashes  careening  in  from 
a  hold-up,  the  town  is  shot  to  pieces  by  outlaws.  Then 
Indians  creep  stealthily  in  while  Happy  Canyon  sleeps 
and  attack  in  the  early  morning  hours,  as  in  the  days 
wdien  the  Snakes  and  Bannocks  went  on  the  warpath 
and  stole  in  on  the  settlers  hereabouts  forty  years  ago. 

One  of  the  most  dramatic  climaxes  in  the  old  life  of 
the  red  man  of  this  continent  will  probably  be  that  re- 
markable scene  witnessed  by  the  vast  throng  in  Happy 
Canyon  the  fall  after  the  Armistice.  It  was  known 
among  old  settlers  and  others  here  in  Pendleton  that 
some  of  the  Indians  still  possessed  scalps  which,  how- 
ever, they  kept  carefully  concealed  from  the  eyes  of  the 
paleface.  No  persuasion  would  induce  these  sons  of 
the  forests  and  plains  to  produce  them. 

Suddenly  just  before  the  1919  Round-Up  the  Indian 
interpreter,  Leo  Sampson,  came  to  Roy  Raley,  the 
director  and  organizer  of  Happy  Canyon.  He  said 
that  the  head  man,  a  sort  of  sub-chief,  Jim  Bad  Roads, 
had  sent  him  to  speak  on  behalf  of  the  Indians.  Many 
of  their  young  bucks,  he  said,  had  joined  the  army  and 
gone  overseas  and  had  helped  in  the  defeat  of  the 
enemy.  His  people,  particularly  the  old  people,  wanted 
to  dance  their  Victory  Dance  in  honor  of  their  victor- 
ies 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

ious  warriors  and  their  dead.  If  then,  the  program 
of  Happy  Canyon  could  be  arranged  for  this,  they 
would  like  to  give  this  dance  there  and  as  scalps  were 
a  ceremonial  symbol  used  in  this  dance,  they  agreed 
for  the  first  time  to  bring  out  their  scalps. 

The  dance  vvas  a  never-to-be-forgotten  one.  The 
Amerinds  were  marvelously  attired  and  painted  in 
special  war  victory  symbols — unusual  trappings  of 
which  no  white  man  understood  the  significance  or 
nature.  Very  old  warriors  and  old  gray-haired  women 
came,  and  half  blind,  took  part — who  had  never  par- 
ticipated in  the  other  Amerindian  ceremonials  at  the 
Round-Up  before.  There,  too,  were  the  scalps,  symbols 
of  conquest  over  an  enemy,  carried  on  the  staffs  called 
cou  sticks.  In  the  course  of  the  ceremony,  when  an 
Indian  representing  the  dead  enemy  was  brought 
down  the  mountain  side  to  the  camp  ceremony,  the 
old  squaws  gave  vent  to  the  pent-up  fierceness.  It  was 
like  one  last,  wild,  exulting  cry  of  the  imprisoned  heart- 
burnings from  the  remnant  left  of  a  stoical,  courage- 
ous, repressed  generation,  the  last  flickering  of  the 
spirit  of  the  old-time  Indian  before  the  flame  goes  out. 
And  in  those  weird  cries  of  victor  over  vanquished, 
to  those  who  witnessed  and  listened,  was  brought  home 
the  full  significance  of  why 

"When  the  early  Jesuit  fathers  preached  to  Hurons 

and  Choctaws, 
They  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  the  vengeance  of 

the  squaws; 
'Twas  the  women,  not  the  warriors,  turned  those 

stark  enthusiasts  pale. 
For  the  female  of  the  species  is  more  deadly  than  the 

male." 

109 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Interestingly  enough,  I  have  observed  this  same 
practice  by  the  women  of  the  southernmost  Amerinds 
of  the  Yahgan  tribe  of  the  regions  of  Cape  Horn,  but 
it  was  in  the  case  of  a  hve  enemy  Indian  or  one  who 
had  committed  a  crime  against  the  tribe,  until  they 
beat  him  either  into  unconsciousness  or  to  death. 

It  was  a  peculiarly  striking  testimony  that  the  Indian 
hereabouts  not  only  regards  The  Round-Up  as  his 
carnival,  but  considers  it  a  true  celebration  of  the  red 
man.  So,  too,  was  it  fitting  that  here  should  occur 
probably  the  last  Victory  Dance  of  the  aboriginal 
American,  in  actual  tribute  to  their  fallen  as  well  as 
their  victorious  warriors  over  a  defeated  paleface  foe. 

"Whoopee !  Wow  !  Wow !"  emanates  from  the  open 
space — yes,  and  from  the  bleachers,  too,  and  with  a 
rattling  fusillade  of  gun-play  the  show  is  on.  You  see 
bad  men  and  vigilantes  come  riding  into  town ;  the  bar- 
room has  its  shooting  scrape,  and  cowboy  and  cowgirl 
gracefully  reel  through  their  dances  on  horseback  and 
take  part  in  ranch  and  town  games  of  various  kinds, 
but  realism  reaches  its  climax  when  a  furious,  long- 
horned  Texas  steer  is  turned  loose  in  the  town  street. 

At  the  end  of  the  "Street,"  the  church  building, 
is,  as  one  of  the  arena  hands  put  it,  "where  they 
kept  that  there  wild  steer."  The  brute  had  been  con- 
fined in  a  strong  pen  during  the  day  and  by  way  of 
expressing  his  dissatisfaction,  had  hoofed  a  foot-deep 
hole  six  feet  in  diameter  out  of  the  entire  center.  He 
emerges  from  the  corner  behind  the  dummy  church- 
front  with  head  down  and  tail  up,  charging  everything 
in  sight. 

The  scattered  population  of  Happy  Canyon  became 
more  scattered.  The  "caste"  shin  up  the  veranda 
poles  of  Stagger  Inn,  dive  through  the  windows  of  the 

110 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

Chinese  laundry,  dodge  up  the  alley  by  the  blacksmith 
shop,  and  now  enter  the  doors  of  the  lady  milliner. 
Up  the  alley  follows  the  steer;  out  of  another  alley 
pours  the  crowd.  Buckskin-clothed  scouts,  cowboys, 
fringe-skirted  cowgirls  and  whiskery  old-timers  peek 
round  corners,  from  behind  barrels,  and  from  windows 
and  doorways.  Slam  go  doors,  and  furtive  faces  dis- 
appear again,  surging  in  the  opposite  direction  as  the 
bovine  reappears  and  changes  his  course. 

One  old-timer,  minding  his  own  business,  is  comfort- 
ably seated  smoking  his  piece  of  pipe  in  peace,  on  the 
veranda  of  the  Inn,  entirely  unconscious  of  the  steer's 
debut,  is  picked  up  bodily,  chair  and  all.  Fortunately 
the  steer  reaches  low  enough  to  catch  the  chair  first, 
depositing  the  occupant  some  yards  away.  He  runs 
like  a  hothead  while  the  steer,  with  the  chair  dangling 
by  the  rungs  on  one  horn,  puts  after  him.  A  steer  is 
no  respecter  of  persons,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion has  no  conscience. 

Great  Scott  he's  following  his  victim  into  the  big, 
empty  dance  hall.  Crash !  he's  through  the  partly 
opened  door,  and  is  putting  on  by  himself  one  of  the 
fastest  "grizzliest  shimmy-bear"  effects  ever  seen  in 
Pendleton — as  graceful  as  a  hog  on  ice  — for  you  see 
by  his  reflection  the  floor  was  waxed  to  a  finish.  It 
was  all  funny  enough  Rattlesnake  Bill  said  to  make  a 
jackrabbit  jump  in  the  air  and  spit  in  the  face  of  a  bull- 
dog. At  last  he's  back  in  "Main  Street"  where  the  feel 
of  terra  firma  seemed  but  to  increase  the  virility  and 
fighting  vim  of  this  "onery  beef-critter." 

This  steer  was  apparently  not  chosen  for  his  lamb- 
like qualities,  but  rather  because  he  had  been  taken 
from  the  Round-Up  herd  of  wild  Laredo  steers,  and 
sold  for  butcher  meat  on  account  of  his  proclivity  to 

111 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

gore  horses  in  the  arena.  So  they  thought  he  was  good 
enough — or  bad  enough — for  a  Happy  Canyon  steer 
fight. 

As  toreadors,  well-known  cowboys  who  had  won 
championships  in  the  arena,  entered  this  fight  in  which 
the  odds  are  all  against  them  and  in  favor  of  the  steer, 
as  nothing  is  done  to  hurt  the  steer  while  the  only  pro- 
tection of  each  is  a  large  square  of  red  cloth,  called  a 
scrape.  There  they  are  Dell  Blancett,  Ben  Corbett, 
Otto  Kline,  Buffalo  Vernon  and  a  tenderfoot. 

See  they  are  on  foot,  armed  only  with  those  small 
red  cloths,  but  willing  to  take  a  chance,  and  now  put 
on  a  bull-fight  which  for  daring  is  worthy  of  Spain's 
most  intrepid  toreadors.  By  this  time  the  steer  is 
"plumb  cultus"  and  the  bleachers  now  find  no  fault 
with  the  heavy  screen  of  wire  fencing  which  separates 
them  from  the  arena. 

It  is  a  game  which  requires  head,  surefootedness, 
and  a  bit  of  foolhardy  courage  thrown  in,  to  play  fast 
and  loose  with  the  five-foot  spread  of  stiletto  horns 
and  the  sharp  hoofs  of  an  eleven  hundred  pound  steer. 

Buffalo  Vernon  makes  a  daring  leap  and  seizes  the 
steer's  horns,  a  dangerous  act  on  foot, — proceeds  there 
and  now  to  bulldog  the  heavy  brute.  But  the  steer  is 
stronger-necked  than  he  counts  on.  He  loses  his  foot- 
ing and  is  in  danger  of  being  gored  but  the  tenderfoot 
of  the  quartette  of  toreadors  comes  to  his  rescue.  The 
other  evening  his  rescuer  essayed  the  same  feat,  but 
after  a  ten-minute  struggle  in  which  the  enraged, 
horned  beast  sought  to  crush  him  time  and  again 
against  the  fence  posts,  he  in  turn  was  released  by  the 
rest  of  the  outfit. 

This  would-be  bulldogger  afterward  said  that  when 
he  had  seized  the  horns  of  the  steer  and  could  not  let 

112 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

go,  he  remembered  he  had  a  broken  bone  in  his  band- 
aged right  wrist,  having  been  thrown  the  afternoon  be- 
fore from  Sharkey  the  bull. 

Time  and  again  the  cowboy  toreadors  seem  to  escape 
the  mad  charges  by  a  hair's  breadth,  making  skilful 
use  of  the  red  serapes  which  flipped  and  snapped  in 
the  melee.  Rip !  the  tenderfoot  is  caught  on  a  horn 
and  tossed  aside;  but  it  was  only  the  chamois  skin  of 
his  jerkin  and  not  his  own  hide  which  is  torn.  Each 
is  ever  ready  to  attract  the  steer  from  or  go  to  the 
help  of  a  comrade  when  necessary. 

Charging,  the  beast  heads  for  a  retreating  cowboy, 
who  springs  suddenly  to  one  side  amongst  the  scant- 
lings of  the  bleachers.  The  steer  plunges  on  and  sud- 
denly is  lost  to  view  in  the  dark  corner  where  the 
bleachers  join  the  eastern  end  of  the  town.  You  can 
hear  the  clatter  of  hoofs  on  boards  even  above  the  din 
of  spectators  but  only  the  two  toreadors  nearest  in  his 
wake  disappear  after  him  at  increased  speed. 

The  previous  number  on  the  program  you  recall  was 
a  beautiful,  dramatic  spectacle  of  a  dance  of  mountain 
nymphs  in  the  hill  scenery  above  the  town,  staged  by 
a  bevy  of  pretty  Pendleton  girls.  The  two  cowboys 
know  that  these  young  women  are  about  to  shift  their 
scenery  in  the  dressing  room  for  something  more  sub- 
stantial; they  know  only  too  well  that  the  board  walk 
terminates  in  this  room  beneath  the  bleachers  toward 
which  the  steer  is  heading. 

Their  worst  fears  are  realized,  for  the  steer  does 
not  stop  to  knock.  Into  the  room,  of  none  too  ample 
dimensions,  in  the  midst  of  Diana  and  her  maidens, 
he  bolts.  For  a  moment  clothes,  draperies,  chairs  and 
tables  are  brought  into  play  in  a  swirl  of  which  the 
steer   is   the   vortex.      Some   courageously   wield   the 

8  113 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

chairs,  but  for  most  of  them  a  mouse  has  nothing  on 
that  steer. 

But  the  two  cowboys  followed  close,  one  bulldogging 
him  to  starboard  and  the  other  throwing  his  stern 
hard  a-port,  using  his  tail  as  a  tiller,  and  guiding 
the  plunging,  rampant  beast  out  of  the  door,  escort  him 
back  from  his  rude  intrusion  into  the  boudoir  of  the 
ladies.  Thus  ends  a  number  not  listed  on  the  pro- 
gram— The  Bull  in  the  China  Doll  Shop. 

A  little  bewildered,  the  angry  brute  now  takes  his 
position  in  the  middle  of  the  ring.  He  paws  the  earth 
and  shakes  his  lowered  head  threateningly  and  utters 
an  occasional  warning  moan.  In  a  semicircle  the  four 
contestants  radius  him.  There  is  one  "boy"  directly  in 
front.    It  was  his  move.    The  steer  didn't,  so  he  must. 

From  a  scant  twenty-five  feet  away,  steadily,  stealth- 
ily, never  taking  his  eyes  from  those  of  the  steer,  he 
moves  forward  step  by  step — and  at  each  step  willing 
to  give  his  horsehair  braid,  or  even  his  new  sombrero, 
if  that  steer  would  move  while  there  was  still  time  to 
dodge.  The  distance  is  shortening,  he  is  now  but  ten 
feet  to  the  lowered  head. 

"Look  out!  You  won't  be  able  to  get  outside  those 
horns,"  cautioned  Dell  Blancett. 

A  strange  fascination  draws  him  on.  Five  more 
feet  are  cut  down.  Still  the  big  brute  paws  the  earth 
but  does  not  charge. 

"You've  hypnotized  him,"  comes  from  a  seat  in  the 
bleachers. 

A  thought,  as  thoughts  will,  flits  across  the  ap- 
proacher's  mind.  Can  he  close  in  quickly  enough  to 
seize  the  steer's  horns,  and  bulldog  him  before  the 
charge  and  beat  the  steer  to  it  ?  But  something  quick- 
er than  mere  visual  perception  even,  that  telepathic 

114 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

sixth  sense,  registered  the  thought  in  the  mind  of  Blan- 
cett. 

"You  won't  make  it.  Don't  try,"  he  remarks  in  a 
low,  even  tone. 

The  position  was  tense.  To  step  back  now  would 
invite  a  sudden  onrush  while  he  is  not  in  a  position  to 
make  a  getaway.  There  is  little  chance  by  jumping  to 
one  side  of  eluding  that  spread  of  horns,  which  seem 
even  from  where  he  stands  to  half  encircle  him.  A 
thought  comes.  He  had  always  heard  a  bull  or  steer 
did  not  attack  an  inanimate  body  and  men  had  saved 
themselves  by  lying  prone  and  still.  The  experiment 
is  worth  trying.  The  nearer  the  steer  when  a  man  is 
safely  prone,  the  less  chance  of  the  steer  getting  his 
head  low  and  of  the  man  being  horned.  Slowly,  with 
even  movements,  with  eye  ever  on  that  of  the  animal, 
instead  of  holding  the  serape  square  out  as  a  screen, 
retaining  one  corner  in  his  left  hand,  for  he  was  a 
southpaw,  he  worked  his  right  out  arm's  length  behind 
him  to  the  opposite  diagonal  corner. 

Snap !  The  serape  slaps  forward  square  between 
the  eyes  of  the  longhorn  who  simultaneously  shoots 
forward  like  a  bolt  from  a  gun;  but  the  man  is  quicker 
and  has  dropped  flat  on  the  ground,  not  a  bit  too  flat 
for  the  vicious  side  sweep, — one  horn  barking  a  four- 
inch  souvenir  of  the  pleasant  occasion  from  his  right 
shoulder. 

The  steer  hurdles  the  prostrate  form.  All  is  quiet ; 
even  the  spectators  are  still.  There  is  the  slightest 
move  of  the  head  of  the  prone  figure  as  he  cocks  an 
eye  to  starboard  to  see  the  cause  of  the  dead  calm.  But 
it  is  not  too  slight  for  the  steer. 

Whang!  he  again  barely  misses  his  antagonist's 
head.     The  recipient  of  this  moon-dance  and  partici- 

115 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

pant  in  this  fool  stunt,  afterwards  remarks,  when 
Elmer  Storie  rubbing  horse  liniment  on  his  bruises 
asked  how  the  steer  felt  on  him;  "I  thought  he  was  a 
stone  age  centipede  doing  a  four-step." 

The  public  now  have  the  coveted  opportunity  to  pour 
through  the  gaps  of  this  same  wire  fence  and  stroll 
through  Happy  Canyon. 

"WELCOME    STRANGER HOP    TO    IT," 

one  sign  invites. 

You  may  enter  its  shacks  and  stores — yes,  and 
saloons,  too,  if  you  are  content  with  soft  drinks. 
Your  next  move  is  made  clear — "PROMENADE 
ALL  TO  THE  BAR."  When  you  get  there  whether 
you  believe  in  signs  or  not,  "COME  ON  KID.  BUY 
YOUR  LIZZIE  A  DRINK— SHE  AINT  A 
CAMMEL."  In  fact  you  may  buy  anything  under 
the  sun  with  Happy  Canyon  ten-buck  notes,  which  it 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  provide  yourself  with  before 
entering,  at  the  rate  of  ten  cents  per  of  Uncle  Sam's 
legal  tender. 

One  may  enter  the  front  door  of  Stagger  Inn  and 
stagger  out  the  back  door,  but  stagger  in  a  right  and 
decorous  way  if  you  expect  to  get  by  the  sheriff  and 
his  deputies  into  the  great  dance  hall  with  its  superb 
floor.  There  you  may  go,  and  to  the  music  of  the 
splendid  Round-Up  band  "DANCE  YOUR  FOOL 
HEAD  OFF,"  as  that  sign  over  the  entrance  suggests. 
"ONLY  REFINED  DANCING  ALOUD,"  you  are 
warned;  and  the  management  advises  you  frankly, 
"WE  WANT  NO  BLUD  OR  TOBAKO  JUCE 
SPILT  IN  HEAR." 

If  you  are  not  au  fait  on  the  finer  points  of  ballroom 
etiquette  a  way  out  is  plainly  indicated — "GENTS 
WILL  KINDLY  SPIT  OUT  THE  WINDOW— 

116 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

WE  USE  WAX."  So  the  life  of  Happy  Canyon  is 
brimful  to  overflowing  with  excitement  and  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  old  frontier  days.  There  is  enough  fun 
for  all.  So  stay  with  the  bunch  and  "DONT  AKT 
LIKE  YOU  WUZ  THE  ONLY  BRONK  IN  THE 
CORRAL." 

The  night  life  is  not  the  least  interesting  of  the  many 
Round-Up  attractions,  and  nowhere  can  it  be  seen  as 
well  as  entered  into  better  than  on  and  off  Main 
Street  where  the  milling  of  the  night  herd  centers. 
Here  you  rub  elbows  with  old-timers  and  strangers, 
bankers  and  cowboys,  business  men  and  ranchers, 
preachers  and  Indians,  doctors  and  ranch  hands, 
judges  and  sheepherders. 

You  can  turn  with  any  bunch  of  strays  into  the 
dance  halls,  shooting  galleries,  restaurants,  movies  or 
the  cowboy  theater;  or  you  can  follow  the  trail  of 
tobacco  juice  to  the  principal  hangouts  of  some  of  the 
buckaroos.  The  poolrooms  are  all  full,  almost  as  full 
as  they  were  in  the  days  of  bars  and  "sunshine." 

Here  a  bunch  of  the  cowboys  line  the  curb  and  win- 
dow sill  outside  one  of  their  main  resorts.  Let's  go 
in.  Never  mind  that  quartette  at  the  little  game  in  the 
corner.  It  may  be  seven-up,  California  Jack  or  solo; 
but  more  likely  the  brand  is  poker. 

"What's  the  verdant  wad  that  feller's  pulling  from 
his  chapps,  big  enough  to  choke  a  cow?" 

"Oh!  I  reckon  that's  a  plug  of  chewin',"  says  Red 
Parker,  with  fingers  crossed. 

"Come  over.  Furlong,  park  in  here.  There's  room 
for  your  friend,  too — move  over  there,  Jock." 

We  work  our  way  through  chairs  to  a  corner  table 
about  which  is  a  bunch  of  my  old  Pendleton  cronies. 
Jimmie  and  Cress  Sturgis,  Elmer  Storie,  Merle  Chess- 

117 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

man,  Guy  Wyrick,  Brook  Dickson,  R.  Chloiipek,  Ly- 
man Rice  and  George  Strand.  They  had  rounded  up 
"Jock"  Coleman  and  song  was  rife. 

"What !  You  don't  know  Jock — that  well  knit,  good 
looking  laddie  with  a  brogue  as  refreshing  as  the  scent 
of  heather?"  In  his  early  days  as  a  lad  he  had  "sailed 
it"  on  windjammers  along  the  Highland  coasts,  but 
came  out  from  bonnie  Scotland  to  the  West  in  1906 
to  go  into  the  steel  business  as  a  steelworker,  but,  as 
he  put  it,  only  found  bronchos  and  sagebrush.  He 
cowboyed  it,  ranched  it,  then  his  inherent  highland 
humor  and  love  of  music  saw  him  in  vaudeville,  where 
through  his  original  compositions  and  inimitable  im- 
personations he  was  termed  the  Harry  Lauder  of 
America;  then  back  to  ranching,  in  charge  of  a  big 
combine  crew,  and  now  he's  railroading  it — happy-go- 
lucky,  good-natured  Jock,  the  best  sort  and  a  prime 
favorite  with  all.  In  the  minds  of  many,  Jock's  rich, 
Scotch  baritone  should  have  made  its  impress  on 
many  a  gold  disc  record  along  with  McCormack  and 
others. 

It  was  in  this  same  hall  that  one  night  I  sat  in  this 
corner  quietly  alone,  unobserved,  and  just  as  tonight 
I  listened  and  looked  out  on  the  same  scene.  You 
know  the  sounds  when  a  herd  like  that  gets  to  milling 
in  a  roofed-in  corral — the  murmuring  drone  of  men's 
voices,  the  occasional  outstanding  ejaculation,  flavor- 
ed with  poetic  vernacular  or  spiced  with  occasional  un- 
camouflaged  profanity.  Then  the  expectoration  pause 
before  the  expectant  remark,  the  deep-toned,  shake  and 
rattle  of  the  leather  cup  and  the  softened  rattle  of  the 
edge-worn  bones.  A  bit  crude,  yes.  But  only  a  primi- 
tive shellac,  which  seems  to  bring  out  even  more  clearly 
those  splendid,  fundamental,  inherent  qualities  which 

118 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

one  has  often  to  scratch  much  deeper  to  find  beneath 
the  veneer  of  a  more  effete  order. 

The  Hght  filters  Its  golden  way  through  the  half- 
wafting  fog  of  tobacco  smoke  onto  the  great  baize 
tables  sprinkled  with  their  ivories  like  drops  of  a  rain- 
bow on  a  lawn  of  green ;  upon  forward  tilted  sombre- 
ros with  a  cockeyed  slant  shading  keen  eyes,  deep  set 
in  shadowed  sockets;  upon  the  sheen  of  colored  shirt 
as  the  strong  figures  reach  in  their  play  with  the  cue, 
their  clean-cut  faces  chiseled  by  a  life  and  work  in 
which  they  ask  of  nature  no  compromise.  All  is  a  great 
delicious,  impressionistic  splash  of  color  on  a  canvas 
soon  to  be  grayed  with  that  dull  mediocrity  we  call 
civilization. 

The  smoke  grew  thicker,  the  background  turned  to 
a  dark  nothingness,  the  murmur  of  men's  voices  merged 
with  it  and  only  the  shirted,  chapped,  sombreroed  fig- 
ures moved  across  my  vision.  The  lights  were  the 
lights  of  campfires,  the  shadows  on  the  men's  faces 
those  cast  by  them,  and  time  filmed  backward  a  space 
of  years.  I  saw  the  western  plainsmen  on  the  great 
stage  of  their  calling.  Perhaps  no  type  of  men  or  call- 
ing have  ridden  into  publicity  and  the  interest  of  people 
of  all  countries  more  completely  than  the  vaquero  and 
particularly  the  vaquero  of  our  western  plains — the 
cowboy.  No  vocation  is  so  constantly  spiced  with  ro- 
mance, adventure,  fight  and  fun  as  that  of  the  cow- 
boy— those  elements  which  make  an  inherent  appeal 
to  mankind. 

Nor  is  any  "getup"  used  in  practical  everyday  work 
more  picturesque  than  the  broad-hatted,  chapped,  care- 
free, spur- jingling  one  of  the  American  cowboy.  One 
of  its  charms  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  worn  for  business 
and  not  for  effect,  and  you  know  it.    Look  about  this 

119 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

crowd  now  with  the  added  color  of  his  best  "harness," 
which  he  sometimes  "shcks  up"  with  for  a  Saturday 
night  in  town,  but  more  particularly  as  you  see  him 
now  during  the  Round-Up. 

Perhaps,  too,  no  phase  of  calling  and  type  of  man  so 
much  in  the  limelight  of  the  world  is  quite  so  little 
really  known  and  appreciated.  Its  very  picturesque- 
ness  has  thrown  an  eclat  and  a  veil  over  the  popular 
vision  and  hidden  not  only  many  of  the  cowboy's  true, 
manly,  and  generous  qualities,  but  has  perhaps  ob- 
scured the  value  of  his  service  to  civilization,  which 
by  the  great  majority  is  scarcely  thought  of.  It  was  the 
cowboy  who  was  often  the  first  discoverer  of  "some- 
thing lost  behind  the  ranges" ;  who  first  "entered  on 
the  find" ;  whose  pony  was  the  first  to  lead  "down  the 
hostile  mountains  where  the  hair-poised  snow-slide 
shivered,  and  through  the  big  fat  marshes  that  the  vir- 
gin ore-bed  stains."  His  ears  were  often  the  first  to 
hear  the  "mile-wide  mutterings  of  unimagined  rivers" ; 
his  eyes  the  first  to  see  beyond  "nameless  timber  the 
illimitable  plains."  He  has  often  been  not  only  the 
forerunner,  but  the  pioneer  over  wide  regions  now 
dotted  with  towns  and  cities,  rivers  hemmed  with 
water  frontage,  throbbing  with  industries  and  dammed 
for  "plants  to  feed  a  people."  He  may  well  say  in  the 
words  of  The  Explorer,  of  the  clever  chaps  that  fol- 
lowed him  that  they 

"Tracked  me  by  the  camps  I'd  quitted, 
Used  the  water  holes  I'd  hollowed. 
They'll  go  back  and  do  the  talking. 
They'll  be  called  the  pioneers." 

Who  is  the  cowboy  and  where  does  he  come  from? 
Why,  the  cowboy  fundamentally  is  the  son  of  the  pio- 

120 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

neer,  for  often  the  rancher  in  the  old  days  was  the 
range  master;  the  cowboy  is  not  an  imported  product, 
but  was  born  and  brought  up  in  the  Old  West  and  was 
the  West's  firstborn.  Many  newcomers  from  all 
nations  and  callings  of  an  adventurous  or  elemental 
nature  hired  on  as  cowherds,  and  after  serving  their 
apprenticeship,  were  enrolled  in  the  ranks  of  the  cow- 
boy. The  romance  of  this  life  made  a  particular  ap- 
peal to  the  men  of  red  blood  who  realized  the  danger 
of  sedentary  occupations  and  the  stupidity  of  sitting 
two-thirds  of  one's  life  on  the  end  of  one's  spine,  to 
the  man  who  loved  nature,  to  the  laboring  man  re- 
stricted by  overcrowding  in  his  trade  in  his  old  world ; 
even  to  the  man  of  culture,  of  whom  perhaps  no  one 
section  of  the  country,  except  possibly  the  old  South, 
has  contributed  more  recruits  than  New  England, 
which  also  sent  out  the  early  explorers  and  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  pioneers.  Even  today  the  most  popular 
pictures  on  the  walls  of  many  a  school  and  college  boy 
of  the  East  are  those  of  Frederic  Remington  and 
Charlie  Russell,  our  two  greatest  painter  historians  of 
the  West. 

Banded  together  the  cowboys  have  dispensed  wild 
justice  to  many  outlaws.  There  occurred  sometimes 
the  inevitable  war  over  property  between  ranch  and 
ranch,  and  the  stockmen's  wars  between  sheepmen  and 
cattlemen.  But  the  cowboys  have  essentially  stood  for 
the  protection  of  law  and  property  in  a  territory  where 
the  only  writ  that  ran  was  that  signed  by  the  strong 
hand.  Their  fight  against  thieves  has  been  a  good 
fight,  especially  against  horse  thieves,  the  arch  crimi- 
nals in  a  new  country  where  everybody  must  ride. 

A  part  of  the  day's  work  may  be  dragging  a  steer 
out  of  quicksand  and  then  dodging  the  grateful  beast 

121 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

to  save  being  gored;  to  ford  a  freshet-swollen  river; 
to  struggle  through  a  blizzard,  while  cow-punching  in 
a  stampede  is  not  play  for  a  floorwalker. 

Such  work  demands  not  only  a  perfect  presence  of 
mind  but  a  perfect  co-ordination  of  mind  and  action. 
The  picture  of  the  cowboy  as  he  is  portrayed  in  his 
reckless  moments  when  he  crazily  careens  a-whooping 
and  a-shooting  through  the  town  when  he  rides  his 
horses  into  saloons,  or  at  the  times  of  his  gross  merry- 
making is  a  distorted  one ;  and  you  are  likely  to  for- 
get in  the  whoop,  the  gun-play  and  the  curse,  the  fringe 
and  the  jingle,  how  much  hard  work,  often  under  most 
difficult  conditions,  he  is  doing.  The  cowboy,  while 
a  type  and  adhering  to  his  clan,  is  a  marked  individu- 
alist, and  anyone  who  knows  and  loves  the  open  and 
the  great  range  of  freedom,  knows  that  the  men  who 
live  in  those  great  expanses  of  life,  who  often  must 
be  a  law  unto  themselves,  who  carry  dangerous  weap- 
ons and  know  that  their  associates  carry  them,  are 
usually  self-contained  and  courteous.  The  cowboy  is 
of  a  keen-thinking,  clear-eyed  and  resolute  clan,  far 
from  quarrelsome,  but  sudden  in  a  fight,  though  not 
seeking  it,  and  doubly  quick  on  the  draw.  This  is  the 
true  son  of  the  plains,  if  you  eliminate  some  recent 
hands  who  have  stepped  into  his  chapps  and  think  that 
so  doing  and  jamming  on  a  Stetson,  and  looking  tough 
makes  a  cowboy.  The  cowboy  is  honest,  hard-work- 
ing, truthful  and  full  of  resource — and  of  course  brave, 
not  merely  in  action  but  in  endurance. 

It  was  logical  that  when  the  railroads  brought  beef- 
cattle  on  the  hoof  to  be  shipped  to  Europe  by  way  of 
the  great  cattle  boats,  Boston  should  become  the  great 
port  of  export  and  center  of  this  trade.  By  reason  of 
its  great  shoe  and  textile  industries  it  had  a  very  direct 

122 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

and  vital  connection  with  the  cattle  and  sheep  indus- 
try of  the  West. 

The  hfe  on  these  cattle  boats  with  their  congested, 
seasick,  stench-reeking,  bellowing,  bovine  cargo  and 
the  dangerous  work  of  cleaning  out,  bedding  down, 
tending,  feeding,  watering,  and  removing  carcasses  of 
cattle  that  had  died  on  the  voyage — often  in  a  heavy 
seaway  and  storm — naturally  did  not  appeal  to  the 
landsman  of  the  western  interior.  Besides  the  few  at- 
tendant cowhands,  who  had  come  as  far  as  the  Chica- 
go stockyards,  most  of  them  had  hit  the  trail  back 
West.  So  the  stevedores  were  generally  picked  up 
somewhere  along  that  attractive  mudhole,  Atlantic 
Avenue. 

The  red-blooded  youths  whose  homes  were  on  or 
near  the  stern  and  rock-bound  coast  of  Massachusetts, 
many  of  them  descendants  of  the  hardy  Yankee  skip- 
pers or  the  seafaring  folk  of  the  North  and  South 
Shores  and  "The  Cape,"  shipped  on  Gloucester  and 
Boston  fishermen  for  the  dangerous  cruising  on  the 
"Georges"  and  Grand  Banks.  They  were  the  progeny 
of  those  sailormen  who  taught  Britain  on  the  sea  in 
1812,  and  the  Dey  of  Algiers  in  1815  to  respect  the 
American  marine;  whose  clipper  ships  outsailed  the 
craft  of  every  nation,  flinging  our  flag  from  their  mast- 
heads in  every  port  of  the  globe,  and  whose  clumsy 
whalers  out  of  the  ports  from  Cape  Cod  to  Cape  Ann 
outsailed  and  out-whaled  the  combined  whaling  fleets 
of  the  world.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the 
Massachusetts  school  and  college  lad  with  such  a  heri- 
tage chose  during  his  summer  vacation  to  take  his 
Odyssey  as  nursemaid  to  a  lot  of  wild,  seasick,  long- 
horned  steers,  and  all  for  only  his  keep  on  the  way  over 
with  a  five-dollar  bill  on  arrival  and  a  free  passage  back. 

123 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Many  of  these  youngsters  doubtless  met  up  with 
some  old  hands,  and  were  initiated  into  an  interest  in 
the  West.  Thus  the  ancestral  urge  of  adventure 
strengthened  the  trade  relationship  of  industrial  Mas- 
sachusetts with  the  agricultural  West,  which  began 
when  Captain  Gray  sailed  out  of  Boston  harbor  to 
trade  a  chisel  for  otter  skins  with  the  Indians  on  the 
Columbia.  So  we  see  an  unbroken  and  very  close  re- 
lationship between  Massachusetts  and  the  Northwest 
and  between  her  sons  and  those  of  Washington  and 
Oregon. 

There  was  a  time  but  a  few  years  ago  when  the  call 
of  the  wild  made  such  an  appeal  to  many  of  the  East- 
ern college  men  that  cow-punching  became  almost  a 
mania.  There  was  almost  an  epidemic  of  reversion 
to  type.  Cultivated  youth,  fascinated  by  the  free  open 
life  of  the  far  West,  obeyed  Horace  Greeley's  injunc- 
tion and  went  there.  If  he  was  not  too  much  of  a 
"dude,"  he  survived  his  dancing  lessons  to  the  tune 
of  a  six-shooter,  his  saddle  soreness,  chuckwagon 
dodgers,  wet,  cold,  heat,  isolation,  deserts,  swollen  tor- 
rents, swollen  lips,  sometimes  swollen  eyes,  horns, 
hoofs,  rope-burns  and  rattlesnakes,  and  became  a  man. 

Many  of  these  Easterners  assimilated  rapidly  the 
contagious  life  and  spirit  of  the  West,  for  after  all 
they  had  only  skipped  a  generation — it's  only  one  gen- 
eration from  shirtsleeves  to  shirtsleeves.  They  contrib- 
uted to  the  West  the  culture  and  breadth  of  viewpoint 
which  this  reciprocal  intermingling  helped  to  create, 
emancipating  the  West  from  many  prejudices  and 
localisms  and  helped  to  bring  about  that  superb  bal- 
ance which  characterizes  the  average  Westerner  of  to- 
day. 

From  the  intermingling  of  these  types,  particularly 

124 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

in  Colorado,  a  curious  and  delightful  society  arose. 
The  ranchman  was  "only  a  cowboy  in  chief.  ...  In 
particular  it  was  noticed  in  El  Paso  and  Denver  in  the 
most  high  and  palmy  state  of  the  cattle  business  that 
cow-punching  was  a  sure  recipe  for  reducing  the  Bos- 
tonian  morgue."  In  fact  there  are  many  delightful  and 
social  colonies  of  ranchers  composed  in  greater  part 
of  Eastern  college  and  educated  men  and  their  families 
who  have  formed  delightful  communities,  as  for  in- 
stance, the  famous  fruit  region  of  Hood  River  Valley 
where  they  have  a  better  University  Club  than  in  many 
a  large  city.  Thus  the  call  of  the  West  of  yesterday 
echoes  into  today  and  will  re-echo  into  tomorrow ;  and 
the  call  will  be  answered. 

But  I  forget — this  is  not  "the  other  night"  and  I'm 
not  sitting  in  this  corner  alone.  The  figures  I  see  in 
the  smoke  are  not  phantoms  of  the  campfires  or  sil- 
houettes against  the  horizons  of  time,  but  real,  honest- 
to-God  plainsmen  and  ranchmen  of  now  on  the  real 
stage  of  their  today. 

The  murmur  of  men's  talk  about  me  has  softened — 
vibrated  away  into  almost  a  node  of  silence,  only  a 
single  voice,  a  voice  you  feel  has  breathed  the  fullness 
of  great  distances,  chronicles  an  episode  in  the  life  of 
the  buckaroo 

The  band  it  plays, 

And  a  cowboy  sways 
On  the  back  of  a  bucking  horse. 

He  looks  around, 

Then  he  hits  the  ground, 
But  the  bucker  keeps  his  course. 

Thundering  applause  shakes  the  whole  structure. 
The  reason  ?    Why,  Tracy  Lane,  the  cowboy  poet  laur- 

125 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

eate  of  the  Round-Up,  has  just  "busted"  into  verse 
about  the  show.  Tracy  not  only  has  written  some 
western  verse,  but  is  also  one  of  the  best  horse-gent- 
lers  in  the  country.  He  does  wonderful  things  with 
horses — teaching  riding-horses  in  particular,  their 
numerous  gaits  and  many  other  things. 

"Give  us  The  Old  Cowhand's  Wish,  Tracy." 
Tracy  spits,  shifts  a  bit  and  wipes  his  hand  across 
his  mouth. 

"All  right,  fellers,  here's  hoppin'  to  it,"  he  spits 
again — "Well,  boys,  I'll  throw  you  somethin'  that  I 
wrote  after  a  spell  back  East  a-gentling  some  'dude' 
horses.  It  kinder  expresses  my  sentiments  better'n  I 
can  talk  'em  myself  and  I  guess  it  kinder  expresses 
yourn." 

Gee,  but  I  am  growing  weary  of  the  city  and  its  glare ; 
Weary  of  the  blocks  and  blocks  of  crowded  street  and 

square, 
Weary  of  the  noises,  of  autos  and  of  cars ; 
I  sometimes  wish  that  I  could  fly  upward  to  the  stars. 

I  am  longing  for  the  prairies,  where  I  rode  so  long  ago, 
Longing  for  the  springtime,  longing  for  the  snow, 
Wishing  I  was  punching  cattle  on  that  horse  I  used  to 

ride; 
The  one  I  always  was  so  proud  of,  the  one  that  always 

bucked  and  shied. 

He  was  a  bay  and  rather  rangy,  and  he  sure  could  kick 

and  snort. 
And  every  morning  when  I'd  mount  him,  he  and  I  would 

have  some  sport. 
But  after  we  had  had  our  battle,  and  his  bucking  it  was 

done, 
He'd  be  as  nice  as  any  horse  that  ever  lived  beneath  the 

sun. 

126 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

I  broke  him  with  a  hackamore,  and  he  sure  did  know  the 

rein, 
And  I  could  rope  and  tie  a  critter,  in  the  hills  or  on  the 

plain, 
And  no  matter  how  he'd  paw,  how  he'd  bawl  or  how  he'd 

This  horse  he'd  stand  and  hold  him,  and  he'd  keep  that 
rawhide  tight. 

Then  we  used  to  drive  the  beef  herd,  to  the  railroad  far 

away 
Then  we  used  to  ride  for  slick-ears,  and  we'd  ride  both 

night  and  day, 
And  we  took  in  all  the  dances,  we  would  go  for  many  a 

mile. 
Just  to  swing  some  pretty  maiden,  hear  her  talk,  and  see 

her  smile. 

But  alas !  the  range  is  ended,  for  the  settlers  they  came 

west, 
They  brought  hammers  and  barbed  wire ;  well,  I  think 

you  know  the  rest, 
They  run  the  cowboys  from  the  ranges,  chased  us  to  the 

hills  and  town. 
And  they  run  me  to  the  city,  the  damnedest  place  I've  ever 

found. 

So  now  I'm  old.  I'm  feeble ;  soon  I'll  make  another  change. 
And  wherever  I  do  go,  I  hope  I'll  find  a  bunchgrass  range. 
I  hope  I'll  meet  all  those  old  cowhands,  the  cowhands  that 

I  used  to  know 
When  I  rode  the  Western  ranges,  over  forty  years  ago. 

When  the  crowd  gets  through  hollooing  and  stamp- 
ing and  Tracy  modestly  rustles  his  seat,  some  one 
bellows, 

"Jock  Coleman — Where's  Jock?  Oh,  there  you  are, 
Scottie.  Come  on  with  one  of  your  kiltie  songs,  Jock," 
and  the  well-knit,  smiling  lock  is  pushed  to  the  front. 

127 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

There  is  a  hush.  The  card  games  ceased  as  Jock's 
melodious  voice  breaks  into  the  Highland  pathos  of 
Annie  Laurie  and  Highland  Mary.  Even  the  clicking 
at  the  pool  tables  stops.  Perhaps  it  was  the  under- 
standing which  comes  from  familiarity  with  the  knocks 
and  nuances  of  life  that  enriched  the  remarkable 
quality  of  his  voice,  w^hich  could  cause  a  smile  to  spread 
over  the  visages,  or  a  wet  glint  to  glisten  in  the  eyes 
of  the  roughest-cut  diamond  of  any  crowd. 

Round  after  round  of  applause  showed  there  was 
no  sitting  down  for  the  singer;  so  it  was  "I  hate  ter-r-r 
get-tup  in  the  mor-r-rnin',''  "I  love  a  lassie,"  and  so  on, 
until  an  old  skinner  of  a  combine  crew  and  a  bunch 
of  ranch-hands  called  for  the  song  they  had  heard 
Jock  had  composed  about  working  on  the  big 
combine. 

"Well,  y'  see,  fellers,  I'll  tell  y'  how  I  came  ter-r 
write  this  wee  bit  song.  Y'  see  last  year-r  I  was  on 
the  big  MacDonald  Ranch  near  Pilot  Rock  wor-r-king 
as  header-r  puncher-r,  and  for  th'  benefit  o'  th'  tender- 
foots in  the  crowd  Fll  go  a  wee  bit  into  detail — and  I 
have  nae  doot  they'll  understand  the  meanin'  o'  the 
song  better-r. 

"Saturday  nights  the  wheat  r-ranchers  would  gi'  a 
party  fer-r  th'  harvester-rs  and  most  o'  th'  hands 
would  round  up  at  some  ranch  hoose.  Weel,  at  one 
o'  these  someone  suggested  that  as  I  had  written  a 
Roond-Up  song,  why  not  one  on  th'  big  combine,  per- 
haps the  most  important  and  certainly  the  most  strikin' 
featur-re  on  a  wheat  ranch  today — the  big  combine 
which  mows,  winnows,  thr-reshes  and  sacks  up  the 
wheat  —  does  what  it  used  to  take  a  hundr-rud 
men  and  as  many  horses  to  do,  and  in  half  the 
time. 

128 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 

"Weel,  some  o'  the  boys  remarked  that  I  was  sort 
o'  quiet  the  next  week,  as  though  I  was  thinking  aboot 
somethin'  an'  I  was.  Weel,  I  decided  I'd  just  tell  aboot 
the  wor-rk  while  the  great  combine  was  a-r-rollin',  and 
bring  in  the  wor-rk  of  the  four  men  which  for-rm  the 
crew  and  make  it  a  bit  o'  a  play  on  the  character  of  each 
— not  fur-r-getting  the  horses,  thir-r-ty-two  o'  them. 
You  see,  the  crew  is  made  up  of  the  header-r  punch- 
er-r,  the  separator-r  puncher-r,  the  skinner-r-r  and  the 
sack  sewer-r-r-r.  Thaire  was  Oscar-r-r  Nelson, — he 
sewed  up  the  sacks.  Oscar-r-r  traveled  a'  la  side 
door-r-r  Pullman,  a  'bo-socialist  was  Oscar-r-r  and  a 
Wobbly  (I.W.W.)  forby.  He'd  be  happier-r-r  in  the 
jungles  than  in  the  Waldor-r-f  Astor-r-ria. 

"Then  thaire  was  Floyd  Smith,  a  healthy  wee  lad 
frae  the  'Valley.'  He  was  the  long-line  skinner-r-r-r, 
although  only  eighteen  he  could  drive  thir-r-ty  head — 
and  he  could  eat  like  a  bear-r-r-r. 

"Then  there  was  meself  header-r-puncher-r-r.  I  had 
to  run  the  ootfit  and  tend  the  knives  and  had  char-rge 
of  the  wheel  that  raises  an'  lower-r-s  accor-r-ding  to 
the  height  y'  wish  tae  cut  th'  grain.  So,  I  set  my  song 
tae  th'  tune  o'  Casey  Jones,  but  said  nothin'  until  I 
sprung  it  at  the  next  big  party.  The  combine  crew 
wer-r-re  all  thaire.  Some  of  you  hae  hear-r-d  it  I've 
nae  doot,  so  y'  can  all  jine  in  the  chorus  o'  Working  on 
the  Big  Combine.  All  right  wi'  the  ivories  thaire, 
Mister-r-r  Pianer-r-puncher-r-r  yer-r-r-r  foot  off  the 
soft  pedal  and  hit  'er-r  har-r-r-rd." 

Now  come,  all  you  rounders,  if  you  want  to  hear 
The  story  of  a  bunch  of  stiffs  a-harvesting  here. 
The  greatest  bunch  of  boys  that  ever  came  down  the  line. 
Is  the  harvest  crew  a-working  on  this  big  combine. 
»  129 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

There's  traveling  men   from   Sweden   in  this  good  old 

crew, 
From  Bonnie  Scotland,  Oregon  and  Canada,  too ; 
I've  listened  to  their  twaddle  for  a  month  or  more, 
I  never  met  a  bunch  of  stiffs  like  this  before. 

"Come  awa  wi'  the  chorus  lads — swing  tae  it !" 

Oh,  you  ought  to  see  this  bunch  of  harvest  pippins 
You  ought  to  see,  they're  surely  something  fine 

You  ought  to  see  this  bunch  of  harvest  pippins. 
This  bunch  of  harvest  pippins  on  this  old  combine. 

There's  Oscar  just  from  Sweden — he's  as  stout  as  a  mule. 
Can  jig  and  sew  with  any  man  or  peddle  the  bull, 
He's  an  independent  worker  of  the  world  as  well, 
He  loves  the  independence  but  he  says  the  work  is  hell. 
He's  got  no  use  for  millionaires  and  wants  ter  see 
Them  blow  up  all  the  grafters  in  this  land  of  liberty ; 
Swears  he's  goin'  ter  leave  this  world  of  graft  and  strife 
And  stay  down  in  the  jungles  with  the  stew-can  all  his 
Hfe. 

"The  chorus  noo,  hop  to  it." 

Oh !  Casey  Jones,  he  knew  Oscar  Nelson, 
Casey  Jones,  he  knew  Oscar  fine; 

Casey  Jones,  he  knew  Oscar  Nelson, 
When  he  chased  him  off  of  boxcars  on  the  S.  P.  line. 

Now  the  next  one  I'm  to  mention, — well,  the  next  in  line, 
Is  the  lad  a-punching  horses  on  this  big  combine 
The  lad  that  tells  the  horses  just  what  to  do. 
But  the  things  he  tells  the  horses  I  can't  tell  you. 
It's  Pete  and  Pat  and  Polly,  you  come  out  of  the  grain, 
And  Buster,  there  you  are  again,  you're  over  the  chain, 
Limp  and  Dude  and  Lady,  you  get  in  and  pull. 
And  Paddy,  you  get  over  there,  you  damned  old  fool. 

130 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 
"Altogether-r-r,  boys — noo." 

Oh !  you  ought  to  see,  you  ought  to  see  our  skinner- 
You  ought  to  see,  he's  surely  something  fine; 

You  ought  to  see,  you  ought  to  see  our  skinner, 
He's  a  winner  at  his  dinner  at  this  old  combine. 


Now  I'm  the  header-puncher,  don't  forget  that's  me 

I  do  more  work,  you  bet,  then  all  the  other  three, 
A-workin'  my  arms  and  a-workin'  my  feet, 
A-picking  up  the  barley  and  the  golden  wheat, 
I  got  to  push  up  the  brake  and  turn  on  the  wheel, 
I  got  to  watch  the  sickle  and  the  draper  and  the  reel. 
And  if  I  strike  a  badger  hill  and  pull  up  a  rock, 
They  holler  "Well,  he's  done  it,  the  damn  fool  Jock." 

"Hop  tae  the  chorus,  cowboys — knock  'em  dead!" 

Oh !    I'm  that  guy,  I'm  the  header-puncher, 
I'm  that  guy  though  it  isn't  in  my  line, 

I'm  that  guy — I'm  the  header-puncher 

I'm  the  header-puncher  on  this  old  combine. 

It  was  a  remarkable  portrayal  of  one  of  the  by- 
phases  of  modern  ranch  life.  It  got  under  the  skins 
of  the  crowd  and  a  full  five  minutes  elapsed  before 
the  applause  died  away. 

"Give  us  your  Round-Up  song,  Jock,  before  this  'er 
corral  puts  up  the  bars  for  the  night." 

"All  r-r-right,  boys —  My  Heart  Goes  Back  to  Dear 
Old  Pendleton.  Now,  you  fellers  put  some  high-life 
into  this  chorus.  Make  it  snappy  Mister-r-r  Piano- 
puncher-r-r ;  put  a  handle  on  it  and  tur-r-rn  it." 

Now  I've  sailed  the  sea,  I've  seen  gay  Paree, 
I've  seen  the  sights  of  old  London.    Though  I'm  far  away, 
I  never  stray  from  that  dear  old  town  I  was  born  in; 

131 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Now  once  ev'ry  year  there's  one  town  looks  dear, 
Pendleton,  you  know  the  town ; 
My  heart  seems  to  cling,  so  that's  why  I  sing 
Of  Pendleton's  Round-Up  renown. 

We've  fairs  ev'rywhere,  some  good,  some  just  fair, 
Some  towns   went   broke   when    'twas  over.      But  there 

won't  come  a  time 
That  this  town  don't  shine,  when  her  people  won't  be  in 

clover ; 
Her  women  are  fair,  her  business  men  square, 
Good  fellowship  night  and  day; 
From  the  mayor  to  the  cop,  she's  always  on  top, 
A  hummer,  a  dinger,  she's  there. 


CHORUS     _ 

t7\  IT\ 


me.  For    Im  go    -      -    ing  back  todear  old  Pen-die-ton,         Where 


ev  -  er       I      may  be;  You  may     talk  a- bout  your  sights  of 


MILLING  WITH  THE  NIGHT  HERD 


Chey-enne,  But  take      a.    lit  -  tie  tip  from  roe.  For 


#* 

— f — 

'    i»  ^ 

F=H 

N  h  J 

,-^  ri  f 

=H 

— f-* H 

N= 

1    1    1    1   1 

Pen-die  -  ton-Sep 

J  n  ii 

-   teni-be 

Jt.Ujl 

r-Let'er  bi 

ck 

That's  the  place 

1  JTl'i- 

for 

1         n 

roe. 

6-' 

§  **  »i    1 

t     1   f 

J    € 

-        I         f 

nt • S— 

y^ti  i " 

Ul=4= 

-".!    i 

^      T    C   -- 

-=^- 

Only  a  small  group  hangs  outside  after  the  doors 
close  and  the  lights  go  out,  but  the  others  scatter  to 
their  homes  or  hangouts — soon  only  an  occasional 
song,  a  whoopee,  a  fusillade  of  shots,  or  a  wild  "Let 
'er  buck"  breaks  the  night  stillness.  The  big  little  city 
sleeps  on  into  the  great  tomorrow. 


133 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE  ROUND-UP 

Shortly  after  noon,  if  you  do  not  want  to  walk  and 
haven't  a  horse,  take  one  of  the  gray,  "bus-like  jit- 
neys" and  follow  with  that  veritable  human  river — 
spectators  and  contestants — which  flows  on  the  open- 
ing day  to  the  Round-Up  Park.  Like  a  gigantic  herd 
on  the  drive,  this  vast  mass  of  humanity  streams 
through  the  gates  and  goes  milling  to  their  seats.  Be- 
fore you  the  broad  quarter  mile  track,  defined  from  the 
centre  arena  by  a  low  fence,  lies  empty  and  quiet.  On 
either  side  the  bleachers  are  packed  to  the  utmost.  Ex- 
pectancy can  be  sensed  throughout  the  great  amphi- 
theater, where  everybody  wears  the  glad-to-see-you, 
glad-to-be-here,  "let  'er  buck"  smile. 

Across  the  arena  behind  a  wire  fence,  a  long  phalanx 
of  cowboys  and  Indians  sit  their  horses  as  spectators 
or  as  waiting  contestants.  Beyond  these,  the  pictur- 
esque tepees  of  the  Umatillas  snuggle  in  pyramids  of 
white  or  color  in  the  shadow  of  a  soft  green  grove  of 
cottonwoods  suffused  in  the  haze  of  Indian  summer; 
and  beyond,  the  low  hills  seem  to  meet  a  turquoise  sky 
and  drift  lazily  out  to  ranch  and  range.  Near  you  the 
Portland  Band  and  the  famous  Round-Up  Mounted 
Cowboy  Band,  headed  by  Bob  Fletcher,  occupy  the  mo- 
ments with  well-rendered  "rags"  and  martial  airs  while 

134 


THE  ROUND-UP 

thirty  thousand  people  eagerly  await  the  things  which 
one  reads  and  dreams  about — the  West  stalking  in  the 
flesh. 

You  will  undoubtedly  meet  up  with  old  friends  but 
you  are  sure  to  see  many  people  of  note.  There  is 
Proctor  the  sculptor's  family,  in  the  third  box  from 
the  center,  and  Anna  Shannon  Monroe,  the  authoress, 
is  with  them.  Proctor,  himself,  is  in  the  arena, — there 
with  his  sketch  book  getting  material.  In  the  next 
box  with  Dave  Horn  is  another  old  six-line  skinner, 

C.  W.  Barger,  from  'Frisco,  who  has  driven  for  Wells 
Fargo,  Farlow  &  Sanderson  and  others.  He  began 
to  handle  the  lines  in  1874  and  not  only  drove  from 
La  Grande  through  Pendleton  to  Umatilla,  but  has 
driven  all  over  the  Western  country,  through  Eastern 
Oregon,  Montana  and  from  British  Columbia  to  Ari- 
zona, winding  up  in  the  Yosemite  sixteen  years  ago. 

The  man  in  the  dark,  slouch  hat  with  his  arms  on 
the  rail,  is  Governor  Olcott  of  Oregon,  he  is  so  in- 
terested he  prefers  standing  in  the  pen  with  the  timers. 

Of  the  many  guests  of  note  who  journey  to  witness 
this  great  pageant  none  have  expressed  their  enthusi- 
asm in  a  more  concrete  way  than  that  man  you  see 
with  a  group  of  friends  in  the  center  box — that's  Louis 

D.  Hill  of  St.  Paul.  As  long  as  he  could  not  freight 
the  whole  show  back  home  with  him  over  the  North- 
ern Pacific  Lines,  he  invited  the  Round-Up  Committee 
and  nearly  a  half  hundred  other  leading  Pendletonians 
as  guests  of  honor  and  to  let-'er-buck  at  the  great  St. 
Paul  mid-winter  ice  carnival. 

So  next  February  with  their  wives, — those  who  had 
them — they  rounded-up  in  the  beautifuf  Snow  City 
in  cowboy  regalia.  No  visitors  ever  received  a  more 
royal   welcome   or  were  encouraged  to  take  greater 

135 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

freedom  in  any  city.  Among  them  was  Bill  Switzler 
and  Glenn  Bushee  (Tall  Pine)  in  his  inimitable  Indian- 
chief's  costume,  and  few  ever  penetrated  his  disguise. 

When  the  horses  Louis  Hill  provided  were  brought 
out,  Wild  Bill's  keen  eye  focused  a  dotted  line  on  one 
particular   animal   in   the   bunch   with   the   bridle   bit 

brand    C^'    '  v^     seared  on  its  right  stifle,  and  an 

Xon  its  right  side — Bill's  own  brands.  It  was  a 
long  way  from  Horse  Heaven  Country,  but 
only  goes  to  show  how  small  is  the  world  of 
men  and  horses. 

Though  snows  have  come  and  gone,  St.  Paul  will 
long  and  pleasantly  remember  that  Pendleton  outfit; 
riding  horses  into  elevators  of  the  leading  hotel,  light- 
ly roping  skilfully  any  pedestrian  who  crossed  their 
path  in  the  parade,  small  boy,  dog  or  pretty  girl  pre- 
ferred— were  some  of  the  episodes  in  their  whole- 
souled  merrymaking. 

They  had  by  no  means  reached  the  end  of  their  rope, 
when  they  lassoed  Jinks  Taylor  out  of  a  barber  chair 
and  shaved  the  nigh  half  only,  of  his  pet  hirsutian  ap- 
pendage from  his  upper  lip,  for  they  shortly  discovered 
Wild  Bill  Switzler  in  a  quiet  corner  having  his  fore- 
hoofs  roached  by  a  pretty  manicurist — didn't  even  give 
him  a  chance  to  have  the  polish  put  on,  or  explain  why 
he  was  going — Swish !  and  a  dozen  hands  suddenly 
hauled  him  backwards  and  out  of  the  door. 

Then  there  was  that  crowning  episode  of  western 
chivalry,  which  Glenn  Bushee  staged  on  the  Capitol 
steps.  In  the  parade  most  of  the  Pendleton  outfit  had 
fair  partners  in  their  saddles,  while  they  rode  behind 
their  cantles.  A  flight  of  Capitol  steps  meant  nothing 
in  the  young  lives  of  men  used  to  chasing  longhorns 
over  rimrock,  so  up  the  steps  they  went.     Suddenly 

136 


THE  ROUND-UP 

on  the  icy  granite  a  horse  fell.  Tall  Pine  in  his  Indian 
regalia  went  down.  But  the  old  arena  instinct  and  his 
inherent  western  chivalry  caused  him  to  think  first 
of  his  fair  partner.  Throwing  himself,  war  bonnet, 
feather,  trapping  and  all  under  her.  Tall  Pine  lit  flat 
on  his  back — she  lit  flat  on  his  nose. 

So,  many  humorous  incidents  paved  their  way,  not 
only  in  St.  Paul,  but  on  to  New  York,  where  the  re- 
nowned hospitality  of  the  Pendletonians,  was  only 
equalled  by  that  of  their  gracious  host.  After  a 
round-up  of  every  entertainment  the  Cosmopolis  of 
America  could  produce,  they  were  willing  to  admit  that 
New  York  compared  favorably  with  Pendleton. 

Perhaps  you  recognize  the  man  in  that  front  seat 
talking  to  Merle  Chessman  of  the  East  Oregonian,  the 
one  with  a  square  set  to  his  jaw,  immaculately  dressed, 
straw  hat  at  a  slight  independent  angle,  and  a  red  car- 
nation in  his  lapel, — that's  Thomas  W.  Lawson  of 
Boston. 

Tom  Lawson,  author,  copper  and  stock-farm  king 
with  his  five  children  has  come  here  all  the  way  from 
Egypt — Massachusetts. 

He's  always  positive  in  his  opinions  as  well  as  his 
remarks,  and  you  know  by  his  manner  he  means  it. 
"It's  all  best,  grand,  marvelous  and  all  new — all  Ameri- 
can, the  greatest  human  entertainment  shown  on  earth. 
Another  thing  that  strikes  me  forcibly  is  the  absence 
of  what  comes  under  the  general  head  of  brutality — 
I  have  never  seen  any  physical  contest  less  brutal  than 
Pendleton's  great  human  nature  exhibition.  It  puts  a 
glow  into  the  minds  of  youth  and  nurtures  the  won- 
derful heritage  our  forefathers  created  for  us." 

Well,  he  has  not  only  expressed  tersely  your  thought, 
but  those  of  every  normal  human  in  this  great  epic. 

137 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

But  there  are  some,  not  without  honor  in  their  own 
country,  occupying  some  of  the  humblest  seats  in  the 
bleachers  whom  yon  don't  know.  But  as  Rattlesnake 
Bill  says,  "Them  strangers  may  be  top-notch  salubri- 
ties back  from  whar  they  hails  from  an'  I've  no  doubts 
but  they're  corn  fed  on  thar  alleged  brains.  I  never 
heard  o'  them  before  but  I  know  a  few  salubrities 
right  'n  town  'n  likely's  'nuff  right  'n  these  bleachers 
now — thar's  'Baldy  Sours',  he's  a  woodcutter — and 
sure  kin  wrangle  an  axe,  thar's  Harry  McDonald,  they 
sure  rubbed  soot  in  his  Irish  eyes,  then  thar's  John 
Jigger,  the  well  digger — everybody's  heerd  tell  on 
'em,  why " 

To  the  minute  at  1  p.  m.  on  each  of  the  three  days 
these  contests  for  world's  championships  begin, — and 
almost  to  the  minute  at  five  they  end.  Roping,  racing, 
and  relays,  by  cowboys,  Indians,  and  cowgirls; 
steer  roping,  maverick  races,  steer  bulldogging; 
riding  bucking  horses,  steers,  bulls,  buffaloes,  and 
cows;  stagecoach  racing,  Indian  ceremonial  and  war 
dances,  trick  riding,  mounted  tug  of  war,  the  grand 
parade,  and  that  wonderful  finale,  the  wild  horse  race 
— and  to  any  one  not  versed  in  the  ways  of  the  open 
West  all  of  this  is  as  instructive  as  it  is  entertaining. 

A  glance  convinces  you  that  the  men,  women,  horses 
and  steers  are  the  real  thing,  and  the  sport — an  out- 
growth from  the  range — is  genuine.  It  is  the  fastest 
fight  and  fun  to  be  found,  in  which  a  gripping,  fas- 
cinating life  is  enacted  every  moment. 

From  grandstand  to  bleacher  you  will  soon  look  out 
on  the  swing  and  swirl  of  movement  of  a  great  sun- 
flooded  oval,  framed  by  the  rolling  hills  of  Oregon, 
where  meet  the  greatest  roughriders  of  the  globe,  com- 
peting for  world's  championships  on  the  worst  outlaw 

138 


THE  ROUND-UP 

horses,  bucking  bulls,  and  buffaloes;  in  roping  wild 
steers,  in  bulldogging  Texas  longhorns,  and  in  the 
various  races — the  cow-pony,  relay,  pony  express,  and 
stagecoach. 

The  whole  drama  with  its  atmosphere  and  charac- 
ter gives  the  Round-Up  its  charm,  and  makes  it  pre- 
eminently the  peer  of  all  cowboy  carnivals.  This  is 
the  great  magnetic  force  which  draws  a  vast  audience 
to  Pendleton  for  three  whole  days  of  each  year. 

Just  before  the  opening  of  the  program  it  is  the 
custom  for  the  President  of  the  Round-Up  Associa- 
tion to  appear  on  the  track  riding  the  first  prize  saddle 
for  the  cowboy's  bucking  contest  for  the  championship 
of  the  world.  Perhaps  no  more  striking  figure  was 
ever  seen  in  the  arena  on  this  occasion  than  the  late 
Sheriff  Til  Taylor.  Many  will  recall  Til  when  he 
rode  in  one  year  escorting  Miss  Jane  Bernoudy,  prob- 
ably the  most  popular  fancy  roper  the  Round-Up  has 
ever  seen.  She  was  ensconced  in  the  seat  of  the  first 
saddle  for  the  girl's  bucking  contest  dressed  in  her 
well-cut  pretty  maroon-colored  velvet  suit  and  natty 
sombrero. 

Beneath  the  man's  broad-brimmed  Stetson  you  saw 
a  face — strong  in  character  as  well  as  physique — 
square,  but  not  heavy-jawed,  eyes  narrow,  deep-set  but 
smiling,  a  mouth  with  the  kind  of  firmness  that  lent 
a  charm  to  his  quiet  laugh,  a  man  as  big  and  noble  of 
heart  as  he  was  stalwart  of  body — a  man's  man.  His 
whole  timbre  and  appearance  was  surcharged  with  that 
peculiar  type  of  virility  and  quality  that  lends  itself 
to  the  inspiration  of  the  sculptor  and  makes  him  itch 
to  put  it  in  bronze. 

The  saddle  the  President  rides,  covering  the  back 
of  his  prancing  mount,  is  a  work  of  art,  enriched  with 

139 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

its  heavy  hand  tooling,  its  long  fapideros  jauntily 
swinging  and  flipping  from  his  stirrups,  the  big  silver 
medallions  heliographing  to  nearly  a  hundred  thousand 
eyes  the  message  and  the  spirit  of  the  Round-Up. 

Some  of  the  contestants  leisurely  cross  the  arena. 
There's  Dell  Blancett,  tall  and  rangy,  followed  by  Cor- 
bett,  short  and  thick-set,  and  others  of  the  well-known 
contestants,  each  packing  his  own  saddle,  with  latigo 
trailing  and  spurs  clinking.  There's  Bill  Riding  and 
Jess  Brunn,  two  of  the  wranglers,  six  foot  plus,  rangy, 
clean-cut,  and  narrow-eyed,  typical  cow-punchers.  But 
whatever  their  set  or  hang,  all  carry  that  simple, 
natural  pose  of  men  of  the  range — in  manner  straight 
and  quiet,  in  bearing  fearless,  and  in  nature  generous, 
but  individualists  all.  They  are  a  type  in  the  passing — 
a  type  which  Pendleton  holds  at  its  true  value. 

You  sit  tense  on  the  edge  of  that  opening  hour. 

HOP  TO  IT 

"Let  'er  buck!"  With  a  thundering  roar  the  slogan 
rings  out  and  the  great  epic  drama  of  the  West  has 
begun. 

Bang!    They're  off! 

A  score  of  plains-bred  men  and  horses  flash  from 
the  start,  swing  around  the  track  in  a  wild,  mad  tear 
and  smother  of  dust,  a  rattling,  hammer-and-tongs 
run.  For  wild  rush  and  reckless  speed  and  turns, 
nothing  can  outrival  the  cow-pony  race.  Yes,  they 
crowd  at  the  turns,  these  chapped  and  booted  cowboys, 
they  cut  in  on  the  stretch  and  they  do  everything  that 
the  skill  of  those  rough-riders  of  the  range  can  do  to 
beat  out  their  adversaries.  It's  a  fight  of  man  and 
horse  against  men  and  horses,  with  every  art  known  to 

140 


THE  ROUND-UP 

these  centaurs  of  the  plains  thrown  in,  a  cowboy  and 
horse  is  down,  he's  up  before  his  horse — he's  mounted 
and  is  off  again. 

Bang !    There  they  go  again. 

But  this  time  it  is  a  band  of  mounted  Indians,  each 
one  of  which,  save  for  a  breech  clout  and  the  paint  his 
squaw  had  decorated  him  with,  is  as  unhampered  by 
the  garb  of  conventionality  as  September  Morn.  They 
shoot  down  the  wind — see  how  they  lash  hide  and 
cling  to  pole  in  their  mad  hurly-burly  sweep  around 
the  oval,  in  a  way  which  for  utter  fearlessness  makes 
tenderfoot  and  stranger  catch  their  bieath. 

Out  come  a  score  of  mounted  cowboys — each  kicks 
off  his  chapps  onto  the  ground  beside  him  and  mounts. 
They  are  facing  the  opposite  direction  from  the  way 
the  other  races  start,  you  wonder  why.  It's  the  quick 
change  race  and  shows  skill  in  preparing  to  ride  and 
changing  saddles.  They  start  in  a  flash  but  bring  up 
as  suddenly  after  a  scant  one  hundred  yards,  swing 
horses,  dismount  and  remove  saddles;  mount  again 
and  back ;  jump  into  chapps,  and  now  leaping  through 
the  air  they  are  back  to  saddles,  which  with  astonishing 
swiftness  they  have  put  on  properly  cinched  up.  Seem- 
ing to  shoot  through  space  they  have  crossed  the  line 
at  the  starting  point. 

The  squaw  race  is  announced,  and  the  mounted 
phalanx  of  full-blood,  Umatilla  Indian  girls  on  Indian 
ponies  line  up  at  the  pole.  For  gameness  and  fine  rid- 
ing the  twenty  squaws  who  run  the  squaw  race,  also 
on  horses  that  are  bare-back  save  for  surcingle,  are 
worthy  representatives  of  their  tribe. 

"Go!"  In  brilliant  garb,  like  a  moving  bouquet  of 
color,  their  black  braids  streaming  in  the  wind,  they 
shoot   like   iridescent   streaks   around  the   great   oval. 

141 


A  WILD  SWING  AND  TEAR  THROUGH  A 
SMOTHER  OF  DUST 

Swiftly  Followed  by  the  Indians  in 

A  MAD-CAP  RIDE,  EVERYBODY  FOR  HIMSELF. 

Then  the  Relay 

SWIFT  AND  RECKLESS  AT  THE  TURNS 

The  maverick  race  "through  a  smother  of  dust"  is  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  and  characteristic  events.  Twenty  to  thirty 
cowboys  in  a  turmoil  of  ropes,  hoofs,  horns  and  dust  take  after 
the  most  "outrunningess"  kind  of  a  steer.  The  first  rope  over 
the  horns  wins. 

The  bewildering,  quick  changes  of  the  relay  and  pony  express 
are  indescribable.  Both  closely  akin,  are  a  survival  of  the  old 
dare-devil  riding  of  the  cowboy  mail-carriers  through  the  coun- 
try of  hostile  Indians.  In  both  races,  each  rider  has  two 
assistants,  one  to  hold  and  one  to  catch,  saddles  to  weigh  not 
less  than  twenty-five  pounds,  any  cinch  allowed,  same  horses  to 
be  used  each  day  barring  accidents,  each  race  a  three-day  con- 
test, best  total  time  winning.  In  the  cowboy's  relay  champion- 
ship, the  rider  has  four  horses.  He  must  saddle,  unsaddle,  mount, 
and  dismount  unassisted,  ride  two  miles  each  day  and  change 
horses  each  half  mile.  On  the  first  day,  riders  draw  for  place  in 
paddock,  afterwards  they  take  them  in  the  order  in  which  they 
finish. 

Two  timers  are  assigned  to  each  horse  in  both  pony  express 
and  relay,  as  one  relay  between  George  Drumheller's  and  Fay 
LeGrow's  strings  ran  so  close  that  at  the  end  of  the  three  days' 
racing  there  was  but  1-5  of  a  second  between  them.  LeGrow's 
string  ridden  by  E.  A.  Armstrong  winning  in  12  minutes  56  1-5 
seconds.  The  Round-Up  relay  record  of  12  minutes  7  seconds 
was  made  by  Scoop  Martin  on  a  Drumheller  string  in  1911, 
also  the  best  single  day  record  of  4  minutes  1  second.  Darrell 
Cannon  holds  second  record  of  12  minutes  21  1-5  seconds  made 
in  1920. 

Watch  Allen  Drumheller  on  Lillian  Ray  as  with  hat  gone,  he 
races  apparently  "swift  and  reckless  at  the  turns."  See  his  style, 
far  forward,  low  and  close  on  his  horse,  riding  zvith  him,  prob- 
ably sitting  thirty  pounds  lighter  than  either  of  the  other  men. 

The  most  important  thing  in  the  relay  is  horsemanship  in 
arriving  at  stations.  Drumheller  after  dismounting  takes  one 
step  to  grab  cinch  to  unhook,  one  step  ahead  to  throw  on  saddle 
to  waiting  horse,  and  one  grab  in  hooking  up,  then  on  and  away. 
A  steady  head  may  win  a  relay  or  pony  express  race  for  it's  a 
long  one  and  many  things  may  happen. 

Allen  Drumheller's  record  makes  him  the  most  remarkable 
all-roimd  racing  rider  who  has  ever  run  at  Pendleton.  He  has 
ridden  into  two  world's  relay  championships  and  one  second  in 
the  three  consecutive  years  he  raced,  with  Sleepy  Armstrong  a 
close  second.  Allen  not  only  holds  third  record  in  the  cow- 
pony  race,  but  first  in  the  pony  express,  time  6  minutes  18  1-5 
seconds;  also  best  time  one  day  2  minutes  5  seconds.  In  1915  he 
took  first  in  all  three,  relay,  pony  express  and  cow-pony. 

Jessie  Drumheller,  petite  and  the  very  essence  of  refined  fem- 
inity, is  a  splendid  counterpart  of  her  brother,  a  superb  relay 
rider  and  holder  of  the  1918  girl's  cow-pony  championship  and 
also  the  record  time  of  54  seconds  on  the  Pendleton  track. 


Photo  by  W.  S.  Bowman 

A  Wild  Swing  and  Tear  through  a  Smother  of  Dust 


Photo  V)y  W.  S.  Bowman 

A  Mad-Cap  Ride,  Everybody  for  Himself 


Photo  by  Maj.  Lee  Moorhouse 

Swift  and  Reckless  at  the  Turns 


CO 

5 


SWINGING  THE  TURNS  LIKE  GALLEONS  IN  A  GALE 

The  stagecoaches,  those  old  caravels  of  the  plains,  are  guided 
in  their  courses  around  the  quarter-mile  track  with  no  slowing 
down  at  the  turns  and  horses  on  the  dead  run  from  start  to 
finish.  It  is  little  wonder  that  only  one  year  in  Round-Up  his- 
tory has  seen  the  three  days  running  go  through  without  one 
or  more  accidents. 

Wells  Fargo,  one  of  the  first  and  the  first  thoroughly  organized 
express,  ran  their  leather,  thoroughbraced.  Concord  coaches  with 
four  to  six  hor.ses  in  the  finest  Concord  harness  wherever  a  train 
did  not  go  and  there  was  enough  of  a  demand.  Their  first 
stagecoach  came  around  the  Horn  in  1852  and  may  be  seen  in 
their  stables  in  San  Francisco. 

In  the  old  days  a  stagecoach  generally  made  forty  to  sixty 
miles  a  driver,  with  a  relay  every  twenty  miles  or  so.  Some  of 
the  well-known  Wells  Fargo  six-line  stringers  like  Dave  Horn 
and  C.  W.  Barger  of  Pendleton  have  gone  sixty  miles  each 
way,  being  "on  the  seat"  for  forty-eight  hours. 

The  "stages"  in  the  stagecoach  race  are  genuine  old  timers 
and  are  furnished  by  the  Round-Up  management.  Each  race 
goes  to  the  "best  time,"  winning  each  day.  Each  contesting 
driver  is  allowed  as  many  assistants  as  desired.  These  comprise 
the  driver  or  stringer,  the  "lasher"  who  wields  the  whip,  as  may 
be  seen  on  the  near  and  winning  coach  driven  by  Jim  Roach, 
and  the  passengers.  The  passengers  are  the  two  or  three  extra 
cowboys  who  barnacle  on  the  side  of  the  coach  nearest  the  arena, 
from  where  they  hang  far  out  to  keep  it  from  capsizing  at  the 
turns. 

H.  W.  Smith  is  the  veteran  driver  here  having  driven  ofif  and 
on  from  the  first  contest  in  1912  until  1920  with  a  once  around 
the  track  record  of  32  seconds.  The  race  is  a  half  mile,  the 
record  being  1  minute  14  seconds  made  by  John  Spain  in  1913, 
with  E.  O.  Zeek  second  in  his  1912  record  of  1  minute  14  1-2 
seconds.  Joe  Cantrell,  who  thrice  won  the  championship,  is  a 
close  third  on  time  with  1  minute  18  seconds. 

The  race  is  purely  a  Round-Up  product.  Although  wanted  the 
first  year  it  was  considered  too  dangerous  but  finally  made  its 
appearance  the  third  year  being  established  before  the  safety- 
first  idea. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

There  are  Kamay  Akany,  Mary  Joshua,  Wealatoy, 
Lucy  Luton,  Sophia  Amika,  NelHe  Minthorn,  Wyna- 
poo  and  Georgia  Penny,  well  bunched  and  all  splendid 
riders.  Now  they  string  out  a  bit,  now  more  and  more 
and  Lucy  Luton  pulls  in  first.  The  Indian  girls  have 
marked  up  a  record  of  .58  seconds  in  the  squaw  race. 

This  daring  racing  is  attended  with  some  spills  and 
injuries,  but  as  I  help  to  carry  from  the  track  one  of 
the  riders  before  the  galloping  hoofs  again  encircle 
the  track,  her  finely  featured  face,  while  bearing  a  bad 
gash,  also  shows  through  her  suffering  that  superb 
self-control  and  stoicism  of  her  race. 

There  now  quickly  follow  others  of  the  never-to-be 
forgotten  races.  Whether  it  be  cow-pony,  Indian, 
quick  change,  squaw,  or  catch  saddle  and  ride,  they 
but  create  in  you  an  anticipation  for  the  greater  thrills 
later  of  the  maverick,  relay,  or  pony  express.  In  the 
whirlwind  rush,  amazing  dexterity,  grit  and  headwork 
is  a  desperate  daring,  and  each  teems  with  a  nerve- 
racking,  devil-may-care  riding  which  characterizes  this 
feature  of  the  Round-Up. 

A  thrill  of  the  past  must  be  felt  by  everyone  in  that 
vast  throng  when  in  the  late  afternoon  glow  the  three 
lumbering  four-horse  stagecoaches  draw  near  to  the 
start.  There  are  men  sitting  among  the  spectators 
watching,  who  in  the  holding  of  the  reins  in  days  gone 
by,  held  life  as  well.  The  rules  prescribe  a  driver, 
lash-plier,  and  passenger. 

Crack,  go  the  long  whips,  and  they  are  off.  Break- 
ing into  full  speed  the  lumbering  old  carriers  rattle 
and  swing  as  they  rock  on  the  turns  like  galleons  in  a 
gale.  They  circle  the  track  as  they  once  circled  the 
foothills  or  sped  on  twist  and  turn  through  canyon 
and  gulch,  going  at  a  gait  that  surprises  even  some  of 

144 


THE  ROUND-UP 

the  old  timers — and  well  it  might  for  H.  W.  Smith's 
outfit  is  running  away. 

On  the  back  stretch  a  wheel  horse  stumbles  and  falls, 
the  pole  breaks,  and  with  a  smash  heard  over  the  entire 
audience,  you  see  driver,  lash-plier,  and  passenger  cata- 
pulted from  the  coach  headlong  into  the  melee  of 
struggling  horses.  Ordinary  folk  would  have  been 
killed,  but,  being  merely  dare-devil  cowboys,  they 
spring  for  control  of  their  horses,  and  cuss  a  blue 
streak  at  their  luck. 

Who  would  ever  think  of  continuing  to  drive  a 
horse  in  a  team  of  four  after  one  of  its  forefeet 
had  been  caught  up  in  the  trace  of  the  horse 
ahead  of  it? 

"Pull  out  of  the  race,  driver?" — Not  on  your  life, 
or  on  his,  either.  So  driver  and  horse  hang  to  the 
game  and  around  they  go — once — twice — the  plucky 
little  horse  galloping  the  whole  distance  on  three  legs 
and  helping  to  pull  in  a  close  second  to  the  winning 
coach,  driven  by  Clarence  Plant  of  Long  Creek. 

A  yell,  there  is  a  dull,  scraping  sound — the  crowd 
springs  to  its  feet.  At  the  most  dangerous  turn  of  all 
— the  one  before  the  homestretch,  a  brake  has  acciden- 
tally jammed  on  one  of  the  age-worn  vehicles,  and 
the  momentum  and  swing  has  caused  the  whole  body 
of  the  coach  with  hind  wheels  spinning,  to  be  thrown 
absolutely  vertically  in  the  air,  where  it  travels  like  a 
moving  watch  tower  with  a  shuddering  sound. 

Crash!  it  careens  onto  its  side  and  though  buried 
from  sight  in  a  cyclone  of  dust  its  course  can  be  traced 
by  the  crackling,  splintering  sounds  in  its  wide  smoky 
trail.  See!  it  suddenly  rights  as  unexpectedly  as  it 
has  capsized,  and  one  of  the  most  exciting  runaways 
ever  witnessed  full-tilts  by  the  grandstand. 

10  145 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

What  of  the  buckaroos  left  in  the  walks  of  the  dis- 
aster? They  have  all  picked  themselves  up  out  of  the 
dust  and  the  wreck — only  a  bit  bruised  and  cut  up. 
The  worst  one  hurt  is  Braden  Gerking,  who  had  the 
biceps  muscles  of  his  left  arm  torn  and  laid  down  near 
the  hollow  of  his  elbow — enough  of  a  shock  to  make 
many  a  stout  man  faint.  Braden,  however,  is  walking 
off  the  track  alone,  nursing  his  injury  with  his  other 
hand,  but  now  the  first  aids  have  collared  him.  He 
walked  away  between  two  of  them  with  a  sickly  smile. 
This  ends  one  of  the  most  spectacular  episodes  ever 
witnessed  in  an  arena. 

If  at  first  you  could  not  get  hold  of  the  imagination 
and  the  sentiment  that  is  back  of  all  this,  and  if  it 
seems  only  a  rough  and  tumble  cowboy  carnival, 
nevertheless,  you  find  yourself  on  your  feet,  whooping, 
cheering  with  the  rest  of  them. 

ROPE  'IM  COWBOY 

To  rope,  "bust"  and  "hogtie"  a  wild  Texas  long- 
horn  single-handed,  within  two  minutes,  is  a  sport 
which  represents  the  daily  work  of  the  range.  Unus- 
ual turns  and  incidents  may  easily  send  hopes  glimmer- 
ing as  the  precious  120  seconds  slip  by.  Men  of  quick 
eye  and  steady  nerve  each  start  their  thirty  feet  behind 
the  longhorn,  who  may  jump  the  arena  fence  like  a 
deer  and  again  and  again  dodge  when  it  hears  the  first 
swish  of  the  rope. 

The  rope  may  break  on  the  tautening,  or  the  saddle 
may  slip,  as  in  the  case  of  Bill  Mahaffey,  who  landed 
on  his  head  with  foot  caught  in  the  stirrup  and  but  for 
the  splendidly  trained  cow-pony  might  have  been  drag- 
ged and  killed;   or  as  in  the  case  of  the  intrepid  Floyd 

146 


THE  ROUND-UP 

Irwin  who  rode  into  the  West  at  Cheyenne  through  a 
most  unusual  accident.  The  cowboys  were  running 
steers  across  the  arena  under  false  throws  in  the  try- 
outs,  to  train  them  so  they  would  make  for  the  exit 
after  being  roped  in  the  show.  Irwin  supposed  he 
had  missed  and  turning,  swung  his  horse  away  to  join 
his  pals  who  were  just  leaving  the  arena.  But  his 
unerring  skill  had  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  miss 
even  when  he  tried.  Thus  unexpectedly  his  rope  taut- 
ened with  the  tremendous  pull  of  the  steer.  The  horse 
was  thrown  violently  sideways  on  Irwin  in  a  fatal  fall. 
Irwin  was  such  a  marvelous  roper  that,  like  Ed 
McCarthy,  he  could  "down  and  tie"  a  steer  from  a 
bridleless  horse  in  better  time  than  many  good  ropers 
could  make  with  a  bridle  on. 

A  steer  is  loosed!  It's  Buffalo  Vernon  after  him — ■ 
Swish !  he  is  roped — thrown,  but  the  little  cow-pony, 
Spot,  too,  plays  his  part  well,  for  now  that  the  steer  is 
down  he  must  hold  the  rope  taut,  while  Vernon  dis- 
mounts and  with  surprising  dexterity  "hogties"  the 
steer,  looping  a  number  of  half  hitches  about  the  hind 
feet  and  one  fore  foot,  thus  lashing  three  legs  of  the 
steer  together.  All  from  start  to  finish  in  twenty-two 
seconds.  Busting !  Well !  right  under  your  nose,  all 
through,  is  proof  that  the  art  of  the  lariat  or  rope,  as 
your  cowboy  has  it,  is  not  lost.  "Down  and  tying" — 
the  finest  wrinkles  of  the  art  of  the  old  range,  are  all 
there. 

A  sudden  hush;  every  eye  is  focused  toward  the 
western  side  of  the  arena.  The  "first-aids"  go  scurry- 
ing to  cover,  as  with  a  fierce  snort  a  rangy  Texas  steer 
dashes  into  the  great  open  space,  and  with  the  ease  of 
a  greyhound  leaps  at  will  the  three- foot  fence  separat- 
ing race-track  from  the  arena  center.     As  the  steer- 

147 


CATCH  AS  CATCH  CAN 

Until  They  Are 
BIDDING  THE  STEER  GOOD-BYE 

Steer  bulldogging?  Well,  you'll  learn  all  about  it  in  good 
time.  Steer  bulldogging  is  perhaps  the  most  daring  sport  of  all — 
and  is  a  feat  one  must  see  to  believe.  In  comes  a  full  grown, 
strong-necked,  Texas  steer,  its  stiletto-like  horns  glistening  in 
the  sun,  thirty  feet  start  over  the  line  and  the  starter's  pistol 
barks  out  and  the  contestant — the  steer  bulldogger,  is  away  with 
his  "hazer"  as  his  mounted  helper  is  called.  The  hazer  assists  in 
helping  to  keep  the  steer  on  the  track  and  "stands  by"  with 
lasso  to  keep  the  bulldogger  from  being  gored  in  case  of  emer- 
gency. He  also  assists  the  bulldogger  in  getting  up  and  away 
from  the  steer  after  he  has  bulldogged,  as  shown,  where  they 
seem  to  be  affectionately  "bidding  the  steer  good-bye."  Mean- 
time the  hazer  is  holding  the  struggling  brute  down  by  the  most 
approved  method — the  tail,  then  on  releasing  him  both  run  for 
their  horses. 

This  contest  consists  of  three  phases — running  down  and 
jumping  from  the  horse,  wrestling  and  throwing  the  steer  and — 
making  the  getaway.  In  the  first  phase  which  is  here  described 
the  man  rides  alongside  the  steer,  reaches  forward,  judging  care- 
fully his  distance  without  hesitation,  springs  forward  and  out 
from  his  saddle  and  literally  plunges — dives  head  first — seizes  the 
steer  by  its  horns,  though  it  is  running  like  a  deer.  He  is  now, 
if  he  maintains  his  hold,  carried  or  dragged,  as  in  the  case  of 
Frank  McCarroU  in  "Catch  as  Catch  Can."  Sometimes  a  man 
falls  short  of  the  horns  and  gets  a  nasty  fall.  Sometimes  he 
over-reaches,  accidentally  or  on  purpose  and  thus  "hoolihans"  the 
steer  by  causing  a  complete  somersault.  This,  however,  is  not 
permitted  at  Pendleton  and  disqualifies  a  contestant.  All_  ques- 
tions of  cleanness  of  throw  and  fall  lie  entirely  with  the  judges 
whose  decision  is  final. 

The  "hazer"  as  he  is  shown,  "Bidding  the  Steer  Goodbye," 
assists  in  keeping  the  steer  on  the  track  and  stands  by  with  lasso 
to  keep  the  bulldogger  from  being  gored  in  case  of  emergency. 
He  also  assists  the  bulldogger,  who  in  this  case  is  Art  Acord, 
in  getting  up  and  away  from  the  steer  after  he  has  bulldogged 
it.  The  hazer  is  holding  the  struggling  brute  down  by  the  most 
approved  method,  the  tail  and  horns,  then  on  releasing  him, 
both  run  for  their  horses. 


Photo  by  Charles  Wellington  Furlong 

"Catch  as  Catch  Can" 


Maj.  Lee  Moorhouse 


Bidding  the  Steer  Good-bye 


O.  G.  Allen 


Hook  'im  Cow! 


HOOK  'IM  COW! 

It  is  a  grim  tussle,  this  second  phase  of  steer  bulldogging,  in 
which  Lafe  Lewman  is  engaged  in  a  fierce  hand-to-horn  tussle, 
as  barehanded,  the  man  against  brute,  seeks  to  throw  the  animal 
by  a  wrestling  twist  of  the  neck,  using  the  horns  and  muzzle 
as  leverages.  Time  and  again,  his  horned  adversary  resorts  to  a 
little  habit  steers  have,  of  trying  to  crush  a  man  against  the 
fence  posts.  Sometimes  they  endeavor  to  break  away  or  shake 
him  off. 

This  bulldogger,  is  in  a  somewhat  precarious  position,  having 
missed  his  first  attempt  of  twisting  the  animal's  neck  clear  over 
when  his  body  weight  was  on  the  lower  horn.  The  steer  having 
thwarted  this  move,  now  has  the  man  between  his  horns.  If  the 
bulldogger  succeeds  in  his  present  move  of  twisting  up  the  head 
by  the  muzzle  and  throwing  the  steer  off  balance,  he  wins,  but 
the  fence  is  in  the  way  for  this  move  and  at  present  the  odds  are 
with  the  steer.  Time  and  again  the  brute  tries  to  crush  the  man, 
grimly,  the  man  too,  plays  the  game,  asking  no  odds,  receiving 
none.    Sometimes  the  steers  win  out,  sometimes  the  men. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

roping  contest  is  on  "time,"  these  conditions  put  the 
knights  of  the  range  to  the  severest  test. 

There  goes  Fred  Beeson.  He  overtakes  his  steer. 
Swish !  swish !  his  lariat  zips  through  the  air — a 
beautiful  throw  over  the  horns;  his  cow-pony,  respon- 
sive to  the  slightest  lay  of  the  rein,  swings  off  at  just 
the  right  angle.  The  rope  tautens  like  a  harp  string; 
something  seems  to  snap — to  give — but  it's  not  the 
rope  and  it's  the  great  horned  adversary  who  suddenly 
describes  a  complete  somersault.  Thud !  and  the  steer 
is  thrown — "busted."  The  rope  is  now  held  tight  by 
the  cow-pony;  the  rider  is  already  running  afoot  with 
a  short  length  of  rope  in  hand  toward  the  steer,  de- 
pending for  his  own  safety  on  his  trained  cow-horse 
to  hold  that  rope  taut  and  the  steer  in  position.  With 
marvelous  speed  he  "hogties"  the  steer,  stands  erect 
and  snaps  both  arms  in  the  air.  Beeson  has  not  only 
won  the  steer  roping  championship  this  year,  but  has 
ridden  down,  roped,  thrown  and  hogtied  a  steer  in 
twenty  seconds  flat  and  established  the  best  record 
ever  made  here,  and  this  made  on  the  Pendleton  steers, 
which  are,  as  one  cowboy  new  to  the  Round-Up  re- 
marked, "the  outrunniness  lot  of  steers  I  ever  did  see." 

BITE  'IM  LIP 

Steer  bulldogging?  Never  heard  of  it?  Turn  to 
any  Westerner  on  these  bleachers  and  he'll  tell  you 
that  it  is  one  of  the  most  "knock  down  and  drag  'em 
about"  events  of  the  Round-Up,  When  you  under- 
stand that  it  is  a  battle  of  skill  and  science  on  the  man's 
part,  in  which  he  must  leap  from  the  back  of  his  run- 
ning horse,  catch  and  throw  a  Texas  steer  with  bare 
hands  then  hold  it  motionless  by  its  upper  lip  with 

ISO 


THE  ROUND-UP 

his  teeth,  and  all  this  against  the  strength — yes,  and 
sagacity,  too — of  a  fighting  steer,  you'll  agree  that  it 
is  a  man's  game  and  one  of  the  sports  of  the  range 
which  is  not  overrun  with  competitors. 

At  Cheyenne  the  object  used  to  be  to  force  the  ani- 
mal's horns  into  the  ground;  thus  man  and  steer 
turned  a  complete  somersault.  This  has  an  unneces- 
sary element  of  danger — to  both  man  and  steer — the 
man  may  be  crushed  under  the  steer,  while  the  steer's 
horns  or  even  its  neck  broken.  But  this  "hoolihan- 
insr"  is  not  allowed  at  Pendleton,  where  the  rules  favor 
the  steer. 

When  the  fifty  megaphone  horns  with  which  the 
arena  is  installed  announce  the  steer  bulldogging  con- 
test for  the  championship  of  the  world,  there  is  a  hush ; 
all  eyes  turn  toward  the  stock  pens  at  the  western  end 
of  the  arena. 

Here  he  comes !  The  long-horned  brute,  with  head 
and  tail  raised,  glaring  defiance  at  the  vast  throng 
safely  screened  behind  the  strong  wire  fencing,  flaunts 
down  the  track  with  that  half  hesitant,  shuftiing  gait 
which  bespeaks  the  angry  steer.  Thirty  feet  is  his 
start  from  a  mounted  cowboy  and  his  helper  called  a 
"hazer";  then,  on  signal,  the  pair  "hit  the  wind"  at 
breakneck  speed.  As  the  bulldogger  swings  to  the 
left,  his  helper  swings  to  the  right,  for  the  helper's 
main  purpose  is  to  keep  the  steer  in  the  track. 

In  a  perfect  turmoil  of  hoof,  head,  and  huddle,  Run- 
yan,  the  bulldogger,  dives  from  his  saddle  for  the 
steer,  but  instead  of  landing  on  the  steer's  head,  lands 
on  his  own.  Visitors  from  large  cities  and  sedate 
centers  of  learning  gasp. 

"Whoop !"  goes  the  cowboy  and  ranch  contingent. 
"Go  get  'im  steer!"     "Hook  'im  cow!",  while  Runyan 

151 


THE  COW-PONY'S  END  OF  THE  GAME 
Until  All  Is  Well  at  the  Other  End  and  It's 
HOGTIED!     HANDS  AND  HEADS  UP 

The  cow-horse  is  a  specialist,  he's  a  skilled  laborer.  When 
cattle  roamed  the  plains,  they  were  generally  disturbed  only  in 
the  spring  gathering  when  calves  were  branded  and  then  were 
thrown  back  on  summer  ranges ;  and  again  in  early  fall  when 
they  were  rounded  up,  late  calves  branded  and  all  "beef"  "cut," 
driven  to  nearest  railroad  station  and  shipped  to  market.  In  all 
this  work,  no  adjunct  was  more  necessary  to  the  cowboy  than 
the  cow-horse.  He,  like  his  master,  must  serve  his  apprenticeship 
on  the  plains ;  without  him  steers  could  not  have  been  captured, 
"cut,"  tied,  branded,  penned  or  shipped  and  there  would  have  been 
no  cattle  industry  on  a  large  scale. 

His  feed  was  bunchgrass,  his  drink  water,  often  poor  and 
alkali-spoiled  and  he  frequently  went  twenty-four  hour  stretches 
without  a  drop,  yet  standing  up  to  fifty  miles  a  day,  often  includ- 
ing his  work. 

But  as  has  been  seen  the  cow-pony's  great  use  is  as  a  "cut 
hoss"  and  "rope  boss."  When  the  rope  over  the  imprisoned  horns 
tautens,  he  knows  just  the  right  angle  to  swing  off  at  and  the 
exact  moment  to  make  the  sudden  halt  to  throw  or  "bust"  the 
dangerous  steer.  He  knows,  too,  how  to  withstand  the  physical 
shock,  which  sometimes  will  not  only  tear  a  cinch  like  a  piece 
of  paper,  literally  wrench  a  saddle  horn  from  the  saddle  tree, 
but  occasionally  violently  throws  down  the  cow-pony  sideways, 
often  to  the  injury  and  sometimes  to  the  death  of  its  rider. 

H  the  cowboy  is  alone  or  working  separately,  he  must  capture 
the  animal  by  his  rope,  then  dismount  and  hogtie  the  thrown 
steer  before  it  can  rise  and  charge  him.  It  is  at  this  stage  of 
the  game  that  the  supreme  test  of  the  cow-pony's  work  and  in- 
telligence comes — he  here  often  actually  holds  his  master's  life 
in  his  keeping.  Alone  now,  the  cow-pony  watches  the  steer,  re- 
sponding to  the  slightest  change  in  the  unbound  captive's  position 
made  through  its  struggles  to  rise.  If  there  is  the  slightest 
slackening  of  the  rope,  the  knowing  cow-pony  at  once  moves 
so  as  to  take  it  up  and  thus  constantly  maintains  a  taut  rope. 
This  always  keeps  the  steer  head  down  and  helpless,  while  the 
cowboy  securely  ties  his  legs  together. 

In  this  case  of  old  "Spot,"  a  well-known,  beloved  character  at 
Pendleton,  and  probably  the  best  trained  cow-pony  in  the  coun- 
try you  see  him  well  upholding  the  cow-pony's  end  of  the  game 
while  Buff  Vernon  hogties  the  steer.  In  the  picture  of  "Hog- 
tied  !  heads  and  hands  up"  you  see  one  of  the  cleverest  cow- 
pony  veterans  "Sunrise"  signalling  to  the  judges,  along  with  his 
master,  that  expert  roper  Dan  Clark,  General  Livestock  Mana- 
ger of  the  O.  W.  R.  &  N.  Little  wonder  that  the  cowboy  grew 
to  love  his  faithful  ally  upon  whom  not  only  his  vocation  but 
his  very  life  frequently  depended. 


Photo  by  W.  S.  Bowman 


The  Cow-pony's  End  of  the  Game 


Photo  by  Ward 


Hogtied !   Hands  and  Heads  Up 


Photo  by  W.  S.  Bowman 


A  Merry-Go-Round 


Photo  by  Burns 


Stay  with  'im  Cowboy 


A  MERRY  GO  ROUND 

And  Then 

STAY  WITH  TM  COWBOY! 

Steer  bulldogging  originated  in  cowboys  first  wrestling  with 
young  calves,  then  gradually  larger  and  larger  animals  were 
taken  on.  It  is  one  of  the  few  sports  that  does  not  appear  to 
have  been  a  recognized  ranch  sport  emanating  from  the  work  of 
the  range,  but  it  has  now  found  its  place  as  a  Round-Up  classic. 
It  was  first  introduced  into  Pendleton  by  Buffalo  Vernon,  that 
first  king  of  bulldoggers.  He  bulldogged  at  the  first  Round-Up 
in  1910  for  exhibition,  then  the  next  year  along  came  Dell  Blan- 
cett  and  entered  the  contest  as  they  had  both  done  it  at  Chey- 
enne and  at  the  Miller  Brothers  101  Ranch  in  Oklahoma. 

Bufif  Vernon  also  introduced  bulldogging  at  Cheyenne  and 
with  a  sprained  wrist  to  boot.  This  was  when  Colonel  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt  was  there  and  put  Cheyenne  on  the  map  as  a 
result.  "Teddy"  shook  hands  with  Buff  and  complimented  him  in 
the  inimitable  way  that  T.  R.  had. 

As  far  as  it  is  possible  to  find  out,  a  man  named  Pickett  seems 
to  have  been  the  first  bulldogger  on  record.  He  even  tackled, 
barehanded,  a  thoroughbred,  imported,  Andulusian  bull  with  a 
reputation  to  bulldog  it  at  a  Mexican  bull  fight.  When  their  pet 
toro  was  actually  getting  the  worst  of  it,  the  crowd  showered 
Pickett  with  bouquets — oh  no !  bouteilles  instead — and  knives  to 
express  their  appreciation  of  his  nerve,  with  the  result,  that  poor 
Pickett  was  forced  to  let  go  and  only  escaped  death  by  another 
man  flagging  the  angry  beast. 

Each  phase  of  this  contest  is  exciting,  but  this  second  phase 
of  the  struggle  is  its  main  feature.  The  power  and  size  of  the 
brute  is  shown  in  the  case  of  Henry  Rosenberg  of  Pendleton, 
who  though  a  big  man  is  for  the  moment  being  swung  a  la  merry- 
go-round,  after  receiving  a  bad  gash  on  the  knee.  Ray  McCar- 
roll  of  Pendleton,  who  is  going  to  "stay  with  him"  is  a  superb 
boxer,  wrestler  and  buckaroo  and  is  exemplifying  the  power 
and  endurance  of  a  man  over  his  horned  and  heady  fighting 
adversary.  Rosenberg  is  in  the  first  position  of  the  wrestling 
or  second  phase,  McCarroU  in  the  last  just  as  the  steer  is  about 
to  fall. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

gamely  picks  himself  out  of  the  dust,  shakes  some  of 
it  out  of  his  system,  and  waves  a  hand  as  a  signal  that 
he  is  unhurt. 

There  were  many  game  fights  put  up,  for  it  was  a 
contest  of  champions,  the  best  total  time  for  the  three 
days  winning.  The  first  day  the  steers  had  the  best 
of  it,  not  one  being  thrown;  and  the  second  day  was 
nip  and  tuck;  but  Saturday  the  cowboys  came  into 
their  own.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  there 
were  no  half -grown,  underfed  animals  in  the  Pendle- 
ton outfit,  which  were  from  the  herd  that  had  been 
brought  from  Laredo,  Texas,  the  year  before,  and  had 
been  roaming  free  on  the  range  with  the  best  of  feed ; 
as  fine  a  lot  of  big-necked  longhorns  as  one  would 
wish  to  see. 

Here  comes  Jack  Fretz — a  pretty  catch.  He's 
wrestling  with  only  a  one-horn  grip;  the  steer  drags 
him  to  the  rail  and  there  tries  to  gore  him,  and  the 
plucky  cowboy  finally  lets  go.  Now  he's  lost  his  hold 
and  the  sharp-hoofed  brute  proceeds  to  jump  on  him 
with  all  four  feet.  Still  the  buUdogger  fights  on,  ward- 
ing off,  dodging  the  hoofs  above  him,  actually  fighting 
now  for  his  life,  until  the  steer  puts  for  a  photog- 
rapher. 

Bang!  it's  "Mike"  Hastings,  whose  all-round  bull- 
dogging  record  proclaims  him  one  of  the  peers  among 
bulldoggers.  Once  around  the  track,  he  swoops  down 
upon  the  longhorn  before  the  grandstand;  a  short 
tussle,  and  the  animal  falls  amid  a  roar  from  the 
audience. 

"Bite  'im  lip!" — This  culmination  of  the  contest 
Hastings  proceeds  promptly  to  do  by  leaning  over 
and  fastening  his  teeth  into  the  upper  lip  of  the 
steer,    and    while    maintaining   this    hold,    raises    his 

154 


THE  ROUND-UP 

hands  in  the  air,  all  accomplished  in  twenty-three 
seconds. 

John  Dobbins  puts  up  a  game  fight  but  the  judges 
decide  a  foul  in  favor  of  the  steer  and  disqualifies 
Dobbins  for  tripping.  Jim  Massey  fights  his  steer  for 
almost  ten  minutes  and  is  finally  hung  up  on  the  arena 
fence  in  the  steer's  last  efforts  to  free  himself. 
Throughout  all  the  events  we  see  that  some  of  the 
most  remarkable  features  were  the  game  and  superb 
exhibitions  by  the  losers ;  but  one  of  the  greatest 
hand-to-hand  struggles  between  man  and  brute  is  the 
harassing  battle  between  the  soldier  cowboy,  Cor- 
poral Roy  Hunter  of  the  21st  United  States  Infantry, 
and  his  wild-eyed,  long-horned  foe  we  are  now  wit- 
nessing. 

He  has  disdained  to  chase  his  animal  until  it  is  tired, 
and  has  run  it  down  in  a  scant  hundred  yards.  He  ap- 
proaches the  grandstand  at  a  furious  pace  and  now 
directly  in  the  center  of  it  reaches  forward,  plunges 
from  his  running  horse,  seizes  the  big  horns  in  a 
powerful  grip,  swings  and  drags  another  hundred 
yards  before  the  steer's  impetus  is  even  checked. 
Twice  Hunter  brings  the  steer  to  a  standstill. 

Look!  he  works  more  in  front  of  the  wild-eyed 
animal,  more  between  his  horns,  and  essays  the  second 
phase  of  the  game — the  twisting  of  the  brute's  head 
for  a  fall. 

Every  muscle  is  tense.  Using  the  horns  as  levers, 
he  slowly  and  surely  twists  the  steer's  neck;  the  nose 
gradually  comes  up.  See!  Hunter  feels  he  can  hold 
his  advantage  by  the  weight  of  his  body  on  the  lower 
horn.  He  reaches  an  arm  over  the  strong  neck  and 
grasps  the  upturned  muzzle.  Both  hands  now  slide 
under  it,  tighten  on  it.     Watch  now — he's  making  a 

155 


DARE  DEVIL  RIDING  AT  TOP  SPEED 

On  the  Track,  But  in  the  Arena   You'll  Admit 

THAT'S  TYIN'    TM 

In  the  third  phase  of  the  steer  roping  contest  the  cowboy  dis- 
mounts and  hogties  the  steer  by  crossing  its  three  feet,  and 
securing  them  by  two  wraps  and  a  half  hitch  with  a  hogtieing 
rope  which  he  carries  about  his  waist — sometimes  the  cowboy 
crosses  three  fingers  at  the  same  time.  "That's  tyin'  'im,"  the 
way  Homer  Wilson  of  Oklahoma  is  doing  it.  The  importance 
with  which  this  event  is  regarded  is  obtained  by  the  amount  of 
the  prizes  offered,  which  in  cash  value  totals  nearly  $2,000. 

The  world's  champion  roper  receives  $600  and  a  $350  saddle 
presented  by  the  Pendleton  Commercial  Association,  including 
the  jack  pot  divided  into  day  money  on  a  50,  30,  20  basis  from 
the  $25  entrance  fees  charged  in  this  event. 

George  and  Charlie  VVier  and  Ed  McCarty  stand  out  as  the 
top-notch  championship  Round-Up  ropers,  but  the  best  official 
record  for  a  single  steer  here  is  20  seconds  by  Fred  Beeson  with 
Joe  Gardner  second  and  Ed  McCarty  third.  These  three  ran 
down,  roped,  threw,  dismounted  and  hogtied  six  Texas  steers  in 
the  remarkable  time  of  2  minutes,  8  1-5  seconds,  an  average  of 
21  3-5  seconds  for  each  steer.  How  long  would  it  take  you  to 
drive  one  of  the  longhorned  brutes  into  a  barn? 

One  event  here  is  as  old  as  the  hills — even  the  Seven  Hills  of 
Rome.  It  is  the  standing  or  Roman  race — for  as  far  back  as 
the  days  of  Ben  Hur  we  find  its  prototype.  It  is  a  race  which 
demands  consummate  clear-headedness,  agility,  balance,  horse- 
manship, coordination  and  endurance.  The  trick  and  relay 
riders  are  also  in  this  class.  The  riders,  each  allowed  an 
assistant,  start  at  the  gong  and  must  rise  to  a  standing  position 
within  fifty  yards  and  remain  standing  until  they  have  circled 
the  quarter-mile  track. 

Ben  Corbett,  in  1916  broke  the  men's  record  in  59  1-5  seconds, 
beating  Hoot  Gibson's  1913  record  by  only  1-5  of  a  second. 
But  the  most  superb  Pendleton  record  is  held  by  Bertha  Blan- 
cett,  four  times  first  champion  in  the  cowgirls'  standing  race — 
being  but  once  beaten  for  first  place  by  Vera  Maginnis.  In 
addition  she  also  holds  the  supreme  time  record  on  the  Pendleton 
track  of  59  seconds  flat. 


i  H 


CD 
bfi 

.s 

p2 


> 

n 


A  PRETTY  THROW 

Hootcha  la  I  If  you  have  never  seen  the  "outringess"  kind  of 
steers  overtaken  by  the  "knowingest"  kind  of  cow-ponys,  and 
roped  and  thrown  by  the  cleverest  experts  of  the  lariat,  you  still 
have  something  to  live  for. 

The  cowboy's  success  in  range  work  with  cattle  depended 
first  on  possessing  a  cow-pony,  secondly  on  his  own  roping 
ability  with  all  the  innumerable  minor  arts  of  the  vaquero's  call- 
ing. The  cowboy  who  was  a  handy  roper  easily  found  com- 
petitors to  determine  who  was  the  best  of  "the  bunch."  Men  of 
a  ranch  or  champion  ropers  from  neighboring  ranches  held  rop- 
ing contests  on  the  open  prairies  with  only  cowboys  as  spectators. 

Thus  these  contests  developed  into  open-to-all  competitions 
and  today  we  find  the  public  interested  and  these  roping  contests 
brought  to  cities.  In  the  arena  at  Pendleton  the  great  experts 
of  the  lasso,  compete  in  the  steer-roping  contest  for  the  cham- 
pionship of  the  world.  Certain  rules  have  been  adopted  by  the 
ropers.  At  Pendleton  the  contests  in  this,  as  in  all  the  competi- 
tive events,  are  done  on  "time."  The  steers  must  be  roped, 
thrown  and  hogticd  within  a  minute  and  a  half.  The  purpose 
of  throwing  a  steer  on  the  range  may  be  to  brand,  mark,  identify 
or  inspect  an  animal  or  perhaps  to  kill  it. 

The  chase  and  capture  of  a  wild  steer  is  so  familiar  to  an  ex- 
perienced cow-horse  that  even  bridle,  reins  and  a  guiding  hand 
are  not  necessary.  Into  a  moving  prairie  herd  he  will  proceed 
knowingly  toward  a  certain  steer.  Furtively,  avoiding  any  haste 
which  might  cause  a  stampede,  he  quietly  forces  the  animal  out 
of  the  herd  where  danger  of  excitement  is  over. 

Responsive  to  the  slightest  lay  of  the  rein,  or  often  without 
guidance  he  follows  the  quarry  at  every  turn,  bringing  the  cow- 
boy into  the  best  position  for  the  throw.  So  these  cow-ponys 
used  in  the  Round-Up  contests  are  some  of  the  best  the  ranges 
of  the  Northwest  produce,  bringing  even  five  hundred  dollars 
in  the  open  market. 

Bang!  The  steer  shoots  into  the  arena  like  a  deer.  Thirty 
feet  start  and  the  cowboy  and  cow-pony  are  after  him  on  the 
jump.  Around  and  above  the  cowboy's  head  swings  the  revolv- 
ing noose  of  his  rope.  Swish!  and  the  long  coil  snakes  through 
the  air,  the  noose  opens  fairly  then  drops  in  a  neat  throw  over 
the  horns  and  tightens  on  them.  The  pony  changes  his  direction 
at  an  angle.  Thud !  the  steer  is  thrown.  So  ends  the  first  and 
second  phases  of  the  steer-roping  contest. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

courageous  effort  for  the  throw.  Missed!  the  steer 
is  as  crafty  as  the  man  and  changes  the  position  of  his 
body.    He  now  has  the  man  on  the  defensive. 

Look !  the  man  has  worked  his  steer  to  the  same 
position  a  second  time,  and  now  to  the  surprise  of  the 
great  crowd  the  steer  has  suddenly  dropped — thrown 
from  its  feet.    Bleachers  and  grandstand  now  go  wild. 

"Stay  with  'im  cowboy!"  "Bite  'im  lip!"  encour- 
agingly yip  and  whoop  the  vast  throng.  But  too  soon ! 
The  steer  is  again  up — and  coming.  Before  Hunter 
could  take  advantage  of  the  fall,  his  hold  was  broken. 
His  position  is  now  critical  for  he  is  off  his  feet  and 
being  dragged.  But  Hunter's  life  on  the  range, 
coupled  with  his  superb  army  training,  come  into  obvi- 
ous play.  Though  weakened,  he  is  undaunted.  Again 
he  grabs  the  horns,  but  this  time  to  save  himself  from 
being  gored.  He  is  even  forced  to  wrap  his  body 
about  the  fighting  brute's  head  and  in  this  grim  grip 
the  fighting  demon  dashes  the  cowboy-soldier  into  the 
fence  in  a  vicious  effort  to  crush  him. 

Whack !  Crack !  Splinter !  but  the  soldier  stays. 
In  a  supreme  effort  he  half  rises  and  attempts  another 
throw  but  now  slips  again  under  the  onrush  of  the 
horned  devil.  With  strength  failing  fast,  he  makes  a 
last  but  futile  effort  to  regain  his  feet,  an  almost  im- 
possible act  when  once  way  down  and  the  steer  mov- 
ing forward.  Hanging  by  the  horns,  he  is  dragged  a 
full  quarter  of  the  way  around  the  track;  again  and 
again  the  heavy  brute,  gouges  and  bruises  as  he  treads 
him  with  his  sharp  hoofs. 

It  is  a  grim  fight :  but  the  soldier  still  refuses  to 
release  his  hold.  Now  hanging  on  to  a  single  horn 
only,  utterly  exhausted,  clothes  torn  and  body  cut,  the 
steer  with  a  final,  vicious,  side  swipe  flings  him  off. 

158 


THE  ROUND-UP 

But  Hunter  has  still  head  enough  to  save  himself 
from  being  gored  by  lying  motionless  face  downward 
in  the  dirt. 

Whish !  his  helper's  rope  sings  through  the  air  just 
in  time.  Herders  now  quickly  lift  him  to  his  feet.  A 
wave  of  his  hand  assures  us  that,  at  least  from  his 
point  of  view,  though  a  bit  mauled,  he  is  uninjured. 
A  mighty  cheer  goes  up  in  recognition  of  the  gamest 
fight  in  this  contest  ever  witnessed  at  the  Round-Up. 
Hunter's  battle  is  an  epic.  Even  the  hard-boiled  buck- 
aroos  agree  that  he  was  beaten  by  a  steer  that  would 
have  beaten  anyone. 

In  these  contests  of  men  and  brutes  on  even  terms, 
often  with  all  the  odds  in  the  favor  of  the  latter,  one 
sees  men  with  determined  souls  win  out  in  struggles 
which  grip  deep  and  make  the  blood  tingle,  and  cause 
a  latent  call  of  the  wild  to  surge  in  healthy  response  to 
the  great  living,  panting  West  before  him. 

You  hasten  to  record  in  your  note  book  that  your 
evening  and  morning  calisthenics  and  your  setting  up 
exercises,  even  your  work  with  the  gloves  of  which 
you  are  rather  proud,  is  child's  play  beside  steer  bull- 
dogging. 

HOOK  'EM  COW 

"Let  'er  buck!"  This  slogan  generally  signifies  that 
some  famous  outlaw  horse  is  about  to  be  mounted  by 
the  rider  who  has  drawn  him  the  night  before  at  the 
Round-Up  headquarters.  But  this  time  it  is  black 
"Sharkey,"  the  famous  nineteen  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  pound,  unridable  bucking  bull,  who,  in  charge  of 
his  "wranglers,"  is  just  poking  his  nose  from  the 
corral  and  is  soon  followed  by  the  contingent  of  bulls, 
buffaloes,  and  steers. 

159 


MAN  VERSUS  BEAST 

While  "Below  Decks"  Is 

THE  NAVY  TAKING  ON  FRESH  BEEF 

As  they  play  this  sport  at  Pendleton,  steer  bulldogging  is  one 
of  the  most  novel  and  man-nervy  feats  of  the  Round-Up.  The 
steers  often  big,  strong,  four  year  olds  and  have  often  won  out. 

Roy  Hunter,  the  cavalryman,  to  the  astonishment  of  spectators 
and  judges  had  sprung  a  surprise,  by  jumping  his  steer,  forcing 
its  head  and  horns  suddenly  down  into  the  ground,  causing  it 
and  himself  with  it,  to  turn  a  complete  somersault  plumb  in  front 
of  the  grandstand,  while  Roy  lay  smiling  amidst  the  debris,  the 
steer  bulldogged  flat  out  in  the  best  time  that  year  of  24  1-5 
seconds,  but  the  judges  disqualified  his  throw  for  "hoolihaning." 
The  contest  of  the  "man  versus  beast"  is  a  dramatic  moment, 
when  Hunter  with  a  gradual  weakening  is  being  dragged  around 
the  arena  track  in  the  famous  epic  of  this  game  described  in  this 
chapter. 

Yakima  Cannutt  the  big  buckaroo  and  winner  of  the  world's 
steer  bulldogging  championship  in  1920,  when  he  bulldogged  two 
steers  in  just  1  minute  and  1-5  second,  the  first  in  28  1-5  seconds, 
the  second  in  32  seconds  flat,  decided,  that  during  the  war  he'd 
serve  in  the  Navy.  He  considered  two  world  championships  on 
the  hurricane  deck  of  a  bucking  bronc  would  well  qualify  him  to 
ride  the  waves  or  buck  any  sea  his  country  might  require — so  he 
just  slipped  down  to  Pendleton  for  the  Round-Up  to  take  on  a 
little  "fresh  beef  for  the  Navy." 


Photo  by  Charles  Wellington  Furlong 

An  Epic  Fight 


Photo  by  W.  S.  Bowman 

The  1  ^v    Taking  on  Fresh  Beef 


Photo  by  Maj.  Lee  Moorhouse 


Bite  'im  Lip! 


Photo  by  Round-Up  Association 


Thumbs  Up ! 


BITE  'IM  LIP! 

Is  Nozv 
THUMBS  UP 

The  vast  oval  gasped  at  the  daring  of  those  who  indulged  in 
fast  play  and  danger  of  this  one  of  the  three  major  sports  of  the 
Round-Up.  Bite  'im  lip  I  this  is  the  yell  from  the  bleachers  when 
anticipating  the  last  part  of  the  second  phase  of  bulldogging  a 
Texas  Longhorn. 

Bite  'im  lip !  and  Dell,  having  thrown  his  steer  has  now 
reached  over  from  between  its  horns,  in  accordance  with  the 
rules  and  classics  of  the  game,  seized  the  upper  lip  between  his 
teeth  and  is  now  holding  his  hands  up  for  the  count  of  four 
seconds.  But  that  was  before  some  agents  of  the  honorable 
society  for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  animals,  which  has  done 
splendid  work  in  its  own  field,  overstepped  its  mark  when  one 
year  they  objected  to  this  phase  of  this  contest.  They  failed  to 
realize  that  there  was  no  harm  or  hurt  to  a  steer  in  having  a 
man  hold  a  steer's  lip,  merely  as  a  matter  of  form,  for  the  space 
of  four  seconds  in  his  dull  teeth  without  even  bruising  the  skin. 
The  neck  twisting  is  no  more  injurious  or  hurtful  than  that  of 
wrestling.  However,  the  Round-Up  complied  and  now  the  rules 
prescribe  that  the  steer  must  be  thrown  flat  on  his  side  and  held 
with  one  hand  released,  as  Orville  Banks  is  shown  with  his 
"thumbs  up."  Unless  a  steer  is  thrown  within  two  minutes  the 
bulldogger  is  disqualified. 

The  best  time  for  two  steers  wins — the  best  time  on  record  is 
that  of  Yakima  Cannutt  of  1  minute  1-5  second,  beating  Jim 
Massey's  championship  record  of  1919  by  only  1  3-5  seconds. 
The  best  time  recorded  for  a  single  steer  being  that  of  Jess 
Stahl  in  18  1-5  seconds  with  Paul  Hastings  record  of  23  seconds 
made  in  1917,  next. 

The  champion  in  this  contest  takes  home  with  him  besides  the 
$330  purse,  one  of  the  finest  of  Stetson's,  the  pride  of  the  cow- 
boy, that  a  leading  Pendleton  furnishing  house  can  secure,  the 
second  and  third  presentation  of  merchandise  certificates  go  to 
the  second  and  third  winners  in  addition  to  the  $150  and  $100 
prize  money  respectively.  Well  they  have  earned  it,  for  while 
each  has  downed  his  steer  within  30  seconds  he  has  risked  his 
life  and  limb  more  times  than  the  average  man  does  in  thirty 
years. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

The  buffaloes  give  their  wranglers  no  end  of  trouble 
as  they  viciously  charge  this  way  and  that,  but  no 
wrangler  cares  to  tackle  these  vicious,  powerful,  little 
brutes  on  foot.  Not  only  a  nose  ring,  but  a  rope  about 
both  a  fore  and  hind  leg  and  a  horse  on  each  end  of 
the  rope  holding  taut  in  opposite  directions,  is  neces- 
sary to  hold  the  half -grown  bison  for  the  blind  and 
saddling.  A  buckaroo  mounts.  A  rough  ride  for  a 
second  or  two  and  he's  thrown,  narrowly  escaping 
being  gored  by  the  sharp  horns  of  the  animal. 

The  two  young  Jersey  bulls  discharge  all  obliga- 
tions to  their  riders  with  interest  but  without  trouble, 
much  to  the  delight  of  the  spectators.  There's  "Lovin' 
Louise,"  the  bucking  cow,  but  the  only  affection  in 
her  nature  she  shortly  proves  is  her  love  to  get  rid  of 
her  man.  So,  too,  with  Hereford  Bess.  The  big  red 
bucking  steer  is  being  mounted — he's  off  and  the  rider, 
too.  "Did  the  cowboy  ride  the  calf?"  laconically  re- 
marks a  wrangler,  amid  the  uproar  from  grandstand 
and  bleachers. 

A  murmur  of  satisfaction  now  goes  up — they  are 
saddling  Henry  Vogt,  whose  fame  is  second  only  to 
Sharkey's. 

"That's  the  original  cow  that  jumped  over  the 
moon,"  comes  out  of  the  audience,  as  Tex  Daniels, 
who  had  once  managed  to  stick  to  Long  Tom  though 
he  double- reined,  stays  just  one  buck  on  Henry's 
broad  back,  and  also  Harris  Thompson  shows  how 
easy  it  is  for  a  man  to  lose  his  breath  as  well  as  his 
bearings.  The  best  time  that  has  ever  been  made  was 
6  1-2  seconds;  the  average  time  is  less  than  one 
second. 

The  bulls  are  certainly  invincible  and  one  may  well 
ask  why  they  are  so  much  harder  to  ride  than  the 

162 


THE  ROUND-UP 

horses.  I  asked  that  question  myself  in  the  cowboy's 
mess-tent  one  day  at  the  midday  meal. 

"Say,  Furlong!"  and  "Skeeter"  Bill  Robbins  from 
California  craned  his  long  neck  forward  from  the 
other  end  of  the  long  pine  board  table.  "The  best 
way  ter  find  out  th'  difference  between  th'  way  a  boss 
bucks  and  a  bull  bucks  is  ter  git  on  th'  bull." 

I  caught  the  challenge  in  his  glance. 

"Well,  name  your  bull,  Skeeter."  There  was  nothing 
else  to  say.  In  consequence  Mark  Moorhouse,  director 
of  arena  events,  assigned  me  to  ride  Henry  Vogt  the 
next  afternoon. 

Well,  I  grabbed  for  the  horn  of  the  saddle  and 
picked  up  a  handful  of  dirt.  The  kind-hearted  judges 
generously  offered  me  another  try  on  account  of  not 
getting  my  stirrups,  but  the  three  and  a  half  seconds 
of  this  trip  on  Henry  were  so  occupied  with  problems 
of  applied  kinematics  that  it  was  not  until  some  time 
later  that  I  was  able  to  draw  a  few  conclusions  and 
these  are  that  the  bull's  back  is  so  much  broader  than 
that  of  a  horse  that  no  grip  with  the  legs  can  be  ob- 
tained. He  is  saddled  far  back  where  he  can  concen- 
trate his  strongest  buck,  the  saddle  skids  with  his  hide 
over  his  backbone,  he  concentrates  a  tremendous 
amount  of  energy  in  a  buck,  and  his  movements  are 
hard  to  anticipate.  It  is  in  this  anticipating  what  a 
bucking  animal  is  going  to  do  that  makes  a  good  buck 
rider,  for  the  man  must  out-think  the  animal  and  be 
prepared  to  meet  every  movement. 

Happy  Jack  Hawn  of  Fresno,  California,  who  sold 
Sharkey  to  the  Round-Up,  with  that  smile  which  drew 
him  his  name  ])roceeds  to  cinch  up  the  bull  trapping 
on  Sharkey.  The  prize  is  five  dollars  to  anyone  who 
gets  on  him  and  $100  for  any  broncho  buster  who  will 

163 


GRABBED  FOR  THE  HORN  OF  THE  SADDLE  AND 
PICKED  UP  A  HANDFUL  OF  DIRT 

Exactly  the  easiest  way  in  the  world  to  lose  one  hundred 
bucks  in  ten  seconds.  Sharkey  was  invincible,  he  had  thrown 
thirty-six  riders  in  three  days  at  Salinas,  California;  none  stayed 
more  than  two  or  three  seconds  and  continued  that  way  all 
down  the  line. 

Beef  was  never  higher  than  when  Sharkey  and  his  contingent 
bucked  at  the  Round-Up. 


o 


W.  S.  Bowman 


When  Beef  Is  Highest 


W.  S.  Bowman 


Landing  at  the  Round-Up 


WHEN  BEEF  IS  HIGHEST 

Is  When  It's 

LANDING  AT  THE  ROUND-UP 

Just  one  d- 


buU  after  another. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

stay  on  him  ten  seconds.  There  is  no  halter  rope,  but 
you  are  welcome  to  take  hold  of  anything  you  can  get. 
Cowboy  Yeager  lasted  about  one  millionth  of  a  sec- 
ond. Hawn  himself  tried  next  and  hit  the  dust  so 
hard  with  his  head  that  it  looked  as  if  he  landed  about 
three  feet  in  it.  Henry  Vogt  near  by  was  fast  making 
a  reputation  like  Sharkey's  farther  down  in  the  arena. 

The  year  following  my  "ride"  off  Flenry,  I  had  no 
sooner  stepped  from  the  train  at  Pendleton  than  one  of 
the  Round-Up  committee  asked  one  of  the  most  un- 
kind questions  ever  put  to  me. 

"Say,  Furlong!   going  to  ride  Sharkey  this  year?" 

I  looked  around  for  a  post  to  lean  against,  failing 
which  I  stuttered,  "Well.    I  haven't  been  asked  to  yet." 

"Oh,  we'll  arrange  that." 

I  was  assigned  for  Saturday  afternoon.  I  had  seen 
Earl  Patterson  dragged  and  trodden  on  by  the  brute 
when  his  spur  got  hung  up  in  the  cinch,  and  carried 
off  with  three  ribs  fractured  and  his  whole  left  side 
like  raw  meat,  and  decided  to  ride  without  spurs. 

In  thinking  it  over,  I  concluded  that  one  reason  a 
rider  lets  go  his  hold  on  the  bulls  was  because  the  tre- 
mendous force  made  him  think  his  joints  were  coming 
apart  at  each  buck  and  his  teeth  shaking  out  in  be- 
tween, but  that  they  really  weren't — he  only  felt  that 
way.  If  I  could  convince  myself  of  this,  I  might  keep 
my  attention  concentrated  on  the  ends  of  my  fingers 
and  the  grip  on  the  saddle  horn  and  strap  behind  the 
cantle.  The  philosophy  then  of  bull  riding  is  simply — 
hang  on — convince  yourself  you're  not  coming  apart, 
you  only  feel  that  way — just  hang  on. 

Sharkey,  both  days,  had  deposited  all  comers  with 
clocklike  regularity  and  demonstrated  as  one  cowboy 
confidentially  confided  "the  quickest  way  in  the  world 

166 


THE  ROUND-UP 

to  lose  a  hundred  bucks."  There  was  nothing  from 
volplaning  to  tail  spin  that  Sharkey  couldn't  do — an 
airshij)  run  loco  had  nothing  on  that  jerked  fresh  beef. 
The  colossal  proportions  of  the  ton-and-a-half  black 
brute  looked  even  larger  to  me  as  I  watched  Happy 
Jack  tighten  up  the  double  cinch  with  a  smile.  Well, 
Jack  could  afford  to  smile — he  wasn't  going  to  ride 
him. 

Squarely  seated  in  the  saddle,  the  blind  w^as  jerked 
off.  Buck!  the  great  mountain  of  concentrated  ex- 
tract of  beef — buck ! — beneath  me — buck !  did  gyra- 
tions that  for  rapidity  and  variety — buck ! — buck  ! — 
would  make  a  whirling  dervish — buck  1 — giddy  with 
envy — buck — buck — buck!  No!  my  joints  weren't — 
buck — coming  apart — buck — they — buck — just — buck 
— felt — buck — that  way — buck.  I  was — buck — hold- 
ing a  ton,  weight — BUCK — by  the  saddle  horn — buck 
— buck — with  my  left  hand — buck !  It  suddenly  shifted 
— buck — and  I  held  a  ton  in  my  right — BUCK — by 
the  strap  behind — buck — buck  !  I  felt  like  an  ani- 
mated— buck — walking  beam — buck — of  a  ferry  boat 
with  the  engine  gone  crazy — buck — buck — BUCK! 
but  my  fingers  held — buck — buck — He's  only  jump- 
ing now, — but  nearly  ran  down  a  herder  who  sprang 
aside — jab !  went  his  goad — only  the  herder — jump — 
knows  why  or  how  and  perhaps  he  doesn't — jump — 
but  jab  went  the  point  into  Sharkey's  flank — He 
wasn't  expecting  it — BUCK — neither  was  I — buck — 
I  was  slightly  off  balance,  which  an  animal  detects 
instinctively — I  could  feel  the  play  and  concentration 
of  his  great  muscles — BUCK — something  hit  me  under 
the  saddle — BUCK — pulled  out  my  spine  then  jammed 
it  together  like  an  accordion — BUCK — something  else 
hit  me  under  the  chin — BUCK — something  else  on  top 

167 


SEATED  ON  A  TON  OF  LIVING  DYNAMITE 

"Sharkey  the  famous  bucking  bull,  $100  to  any  man  who  rides 
him  10  seconds,"  ran  the  Round-Up  Announcement  on  poster  and 
program.  Then  they  offered  five  dollars  to  any  man  who 
would  try  him.  Many  tried  for  the  world's  bucking  bull  cham- 
pionship, few  lasted  after  the  first  buck  or  two  on  the  mile  wide 
back  of  that  redoubtable,  bucking,  black,  Belgrade  Bull — famous 
in  the  annals  of  the  Round-Up.  The  old  veteran  was  in  a 
class  by  himself. 

There  were  no  rules — the  rider  was  supposed  to  hang  on  to 
the  horn  and  the  strings,  hands  and  feet  if  he  could  and  just 
grab  anything.  The  bull-rigged  saddle  was  cinched  far  aft  and 
skidded  all  over  his  backbone  with  his  slippery-elm-lined  hide, 
but  the  philosophy  of  bull  riding  as  with  the  horses  is  to  stay  on. 

The  same  applies  to  Henry  Vogt  the  Jersey  bucking  bull — the 
author  tried  him  in  1913  and  went  the  same  way  as  the  rest — 
twice  in  one  day.  In  1914  on  a  bright  sunny  afternoon  on  the 
last  day  of  the  Round-Up  he  found  himself  seated  on  the  top 
of  that  ton  of  living  dynamite,  Sharkey — then  some  one  touched 
it  off.  He  made  a  twelve-and-a-half  second  ride  on  jerked 
beef,  then  bit  the  dust — this  is  not  in  the  way  of  pilfered  litera- 
ture either.    He  broke  the  record  as  well  as  his  wrist. 


C 


"-^gSfv 


Photo  by  Doubleday 


Hitting  the  Grandstand  Between  the  Eyes 


©  Major  Lee  Moorhouse 

All  Wound  Round  with  a  Woolen  String 


HITTING  THE  GRANDSTAND  BETWEEN  THE  EYES 

Is  One  Thrill,  Anotlier  Is  IVlicn  Four  Cozvboys  Are 

ALL  WOUND  ROUND  WITH  A  WOOLEN  STRING 

That's  what  nearly  happens  when  at  the  finish  of  the  cow- 
boys' and  cowgirls*  grand  mounted  march,  this  great  horde  of 
horsemen  sweep  across  the  arena  in  one  tremendous  stampede. 
Over  the  fence,  they  rush,  kicking  the  dirt  into  the  very  lap  of 
the  grandstand  as  they  bring  up  short  under  the  very  noses  of 
the  spectators  in  a  wild,  terrific  climax  of  overwhelming  numbers. 
Then  as  suddenly  wheeling  back,  they  retreat,  disappearing 
through  the  gates  in  the  gap  toward  the  Indian  village,  and  an- 
other thrill  is  marked  in  your  diary. 

This  picture  of  the  vanguard  of  this  mounted  phalanx  was 
taken  when  William  McAdoo  was  a  guest  of  honor  of  the 
Round-Up.  The  ex-Secretary  of  the  Treasury  proved  an  able 
horseman.  In  this  picture,  he  may  be  distinguished  in  light  som- 
brero, white  shirt  and  light  gray  trousers,  on  the  next  horse  be- 
yond the  late  Til  Taylor,  the  Round-Up  president  who  is  the 
nearest  horseman  in  the  picture. 

"All  wound  round  with  a  woolen  string"  as  the  old  song  goes, 
has  nothing  on  the  captivating  qualities  of  Lucille  Mulhall's 
hemp  "lass  rope."  See  this  attractive,  golden-haired  daughter  of 
Oklahoma,  handle  the  lariat  and  you  will  realize  there  are  ways 
of  spinning  yarns  you  never  dreamed  of.  Lucille  Mulhall,  with 
Bertha  Blancett,  ranks  as  one  of  the  two  greatest  all-round  ranch 
women  in  the  buckaroo  game  and  in  the  game  of  the  lass  rope. 
It  matters  little  to  her  whether  it  is  fancy  roping,  lassooing  an 
outlaw  or  roping  and  hogtieing  a  Texas  steer.  Many  a  fair  Circe 
finds  it  difficult  to  rope  in  a  single  man,  but  Lucille  with  perfect 
grace  and  ease  captures  four  horsemen  in  a  single  throw  of  her 
magic  noose. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

of  my  head  and  slammed  my  t-t-t-teeth  t-t-t-together — 
BUCK — my  joints  really  were  coming  apart — BUCKl 
— BUCK !!— BUCK !! !  I  looked  down  and  saw- 
way,  way  far  down  below  me — my  saddle — that's  the 
last  I  remember  until  I  dug  my  way  out  of  the  dirt — 
only  a  wrist  broken. 

"Who'd  yer  say  that  is?"  said  a  newcomer. 

"That's  the  original  cow  that  jumped  over  the 
moon,"  says  a  squint-eyed  spectator  in  chapps — but 
Sharkey  never  fans  an  ear  to  the  laughter. 

OFF  IN  A  CLOUD  OF  DUST 

You  now  see  twenty  horses,  each  led  by  an  Indian, 
brought  out  and  banded  up  in  bunches  of  four  horses 
each,  take  positions  at  regular  intervals  by  the  grand- 
stand fence.  These  are  the  relay  strings,  all  on  edge; 
they  indeed  need  a  man  to  a  horse.  There  are  the  five 
riders  mounting.  They're  away — these  full  bloods 
and  on  bareback  horses,  too.  It's  a  thrilling  event,  this 
mile  race,  with  each  rider  changing  at  every  quarter 
with  a  drop  and  a  bound,  leaping  their  horses  at  full 
speed.  Poker  Jim's  sons  are  both  ahead,  the  Farrows 
are  riding  on  their  heels,  but  this  is  a  three  days'  race 
and  we  will  see  more  of  the  relays  in  which  both  men 
and  women  ride. 

Over  by  the  paddock  a  bunch  of  some  thirty 
mounted  cowboys  on  restless  whinnying  mounts  are 
bunching  forty  to  a  line,  completely  filling  up  the 
track  for  the  maverick  race. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  Panhandle,  Samuel  Maver- 
ick was  so  successful  in  claiming  unbranded  cattle  that 
any  "slick-ear"— a  steer  not  marked  on  the  ears  or 

branded — found  on  the   range,   about   which   inquiry 

170 


THE  ROUND-UP 

was  made,  was  said  to  have  been  assigned  to  his  owner- 
ship, and  "shck-ears"  eventually  became  known  as 
"mavericks."  An  unbranded  calf  becomes  a  maverick 
anywhere  from  ten  to  fifteen  months  old  when  it 
leaves  the  mother  or  when  the  cow  has  another  calf. 
Hence  the  first  to  rope  an  unidentified  animal  could 
claim  it,  so  the  significance  of  term  "maverick  race"  is 
easily  understood. 

For  a  wild,  devil-may-care,  madcap,  everybody-for- 
himself  rush  and  the  most  realistic  incident  of  range 
life,  take  a  maverick  race.  A  bunch  of  two  dozen  cow- 
boys line  the  track  across  the  arena.  In  the  corral 
ahead,  the  steer  is  already  poking  his  nose  through 
the  gate.  But  the  cowboys  must  hold  their  horses 
until  it  has  a  one-hundred-foot  start;  the  first  man 
that  gets  a  rope  on  the  steer's  horns  and  holds  it,  wins. 
But  this  steer  was  not  born  yesterday.  Dodging  the 
encircling  ropes,  he  clears  the  high  board  fence  then 
smashes  through  the  wire  fence  and  is  among  the  spec- 
tators on  the  bleachers. 

The  first  straight  run,  and  Jim  Roach  throws  and 
holds  an  ugly  gray  maverick  in  the  press.  One  maver- 
ick, instead  of  fleeing,  with  a  snort  of  mingled  rage 
and  fear,  charges  through  the  centre  of  the  awaiting 
cowboy  outfit.  There  is  a  melee — two  horses  go  down, 
but  with  a  yell  they  are  after  it  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion;  and  Narcissus  McKay,  an  Indian,  is  the  winner, 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  WEST 

After  such  a  whirlwind  of  excitement,  a  moment's 
pause  gives  the  crowd  a  chance  to  catch  its  breath  and 
the  dust  to  settle.  It  is  a  pause  well-timed  in  the  rapid 
movement  of  the  nerve-thrilling   feats.     Then,   from 

171 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

in  front  of  the  cottonwoods,  the  moimt-ed  cowboy  band 
swings  into  the  track,  and  to  music  of  the  famous 
mounted  cowboy  band  led  by  Bob  Fletcher,  the  cow- 
boys' and  Indians'  mounted  grand  march  is  ushered  in. 

Following  the  directors,  many  of  them  ranchmen, 
two,  three  or  four  abreast,  about  three  hundred  cow- 
boys, cowgirls,  scouts  and  old  timers  pass  in  review 
to  the  jingle  of  chain  and  spur  and  the  retch  of  leather. 
See  how  all  sit  that  close  saddle  characteristic  of  riders 
to  the  saddle  born  and  bred.  The  girls  are  in  colored 
corduroy  and  khaki  or  fringed  and  embroidered  buck- 
skin, the  men  in  the  ever-picturesque  chapps,  those  of 
Angora  hair  often  brilliantly  dyed,  those  of  leather 
glistening  in  their  studdings  of  silver;  while  loosely, 
freely,  and  generally  askew  about  their  necks,  brilliant- 
ly colored  kerchiefs  flap  or  flutter  in  the  breeze. 

Striking  in  this  ride  of  romance  and  kaleidoscope 
of  color  is  the  Indian  contingent  on  their  gaily  capari- 
soned horses.  Their  long-tasselled  trappings  flap 
about  them  as  the  copper-colored,  painted  faces  of  old 
chief,  young  buck,  pretty  squaw,  and  little  papoose, 
stencilled  in  imperturbable  profile,  ride  by  the  grand- 
stand. Though  there  is  never  a  turn  of  a  head,  one 
who  understands  the  Indian  knows  that  little  was 
missed  by  those  eagle  eyes. 

The  guidons  now  dash  to  their  posts,  and  to  music 
this  wonderful  cavalcade  serpentines  its  way  back  and 
forth  across  the  arena;  the  guidons  acting  as  corners 
are  just  markers  for  the  column  to  swing  around. 
Jinks  Taylor  carries  the  national  emblem  which  adds 
the  glory  of  color  and  symbol  to  this  unhyphenated 
American  spectacle.  Dell  Blancett  is  just  ahead  of  me 
as  we  swing  around  guidon  Fay  LeGrovv. 

"Are  you  a  statue  or  a  real  human?"  grins  Dell  as 
172 


THE  ROUND-UP 

he  passes.  On  one  of  the  days,  from  a  specially  con- 
structed stand  a  great  panoramic  camera  slowly  swung 
in  revolution,  recording  the  event  ultimately  in  a 
photograph  thirty-two  feet  in  length. 

Attention !  In  the  arena  the  great  megaphone  vol- 
umes out  its  great  arc  of  sound.  All  the  riders  come 
to  a  standstill,  the  great  audience  arises  en  masse,  even 
the  horses  seem  unusually  still  and  motionless.  Every 
hat  is  doffed,  as  for  a  whole  full  minute  the  arena  is  as 
silent  as  the  prairie  at  sunset,  while  the  entire  Round- 
Up  pays  silent  tribute  to  Til  Taylor  whose  spirit  will 
always  ride  abroad  amongst  the  men  who  knew  him. 

The  grand  finale  of  this  spectacle  occurred  when  the 
entire  cavalcade  which  had  swung  into  line  on  the 
other  side  of  the  track,  swept  like  a  prairie  fire  in  a 
terrific  charge,  with  wild  yells,  over  the  fence,  checking 
their  furious  dash  at  the  very  feet  of  the  spectators. 
The  stampede  almost  hits  the  entire  grandstand  in  the 
face  wath  its  overwhelming  numbers.  There  was  truth 
in  the  remark  of  one  of  the  noted  spectators,  Maynard 
Dixon,  the  artist,  when  he  said  of  this  spectacle,  "My, 
you  do  get  an  eye  full." 

Swinging  out  of  the  arena,  the  present  occupants  of 
the  country  leave  before  you  its  former  owners — the 
Red  Men.  For  a  time  the  vast  audience  is  held  spell- 
bound by  the  marvelous  riot  of  color  of  the  Indian 
ceremonials — the  crowning  "glory"  of  the  Round-Up 
as  one  witnesses  it  within  the  great  open-air  stadium — 
the  magnificient  pageant  of  the  Red  Man,  pulsing  with 
the  barbarous,  rhythmic  thrumping  of  Amerindian 
drums. 

Listen !  Through  the  curtain  of  settling  dust,  you 
still  hear  that  fascinating,  rhythmic  beat,  that  peculiar 
sensate    rhythm    whose   primitive   prosody   leaves   no 

173 


THE  CEREMONIAL  WAR  DANCE  OF  THE  RED  MEN 

Te-tum,  turn,  turn !  Te-tum-tum-tum !  go  the  rhythmic  bar- 
baric beat  of  the  Indian  drums. 

Haya !  Haya !  Haya-ya- !  ya-a!  cuts  in  the  shrill,  aspirant 
voices  of  the  dancers,  as  now  they  straighten  up  and  throw  back 
their  heads,  now  bend  and  crouching  low,  articulate  their  supple 
bodies  through  weird  postures  to  the  short  staccato  step  move- 
ments of  the  Amerindian  dances. 

Glistening,  vibrating  in  the  sunlight,  in  a  color  and  movement 
like  a  hundred  interlacing  rainbows  their  costumes  bedecked  with 
eagles'  feathers,  bead  work  and  elk's  teeth,  and  representing 
nearly  a  million  dollars  in  value,  they  weave  and  interweave 
through  their  ceremonials. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  superb  Indian  spectacles  produced  today 
anywhere  on  the  American  continent.  A  few  more  short  years 
and  this  sunset  glow  of  the  old  day  of  the  North  American 
Indian  will  have  sunk  forever  below  the  horizon  of  time. 


a 


W.  F.  Bowman 


Two  Indians 


Hop  to  it!     Charlie  Irwin  wrangling  for  his  Daughter  in  the  Relay 


TWO  INDIANS 

By  Themselves  But  Plenty  of  Company  in  the 

Cowgirls'  Relay  For  Those  Who 

HOP  TO  IT! 

In  the  picture  of  two  Indians  taken  at  Pendleton  on  the  levee 
of  the  Umatilla  one  will  recognize  that  superb  type  of  his  race 
Jackson  Sundown,  the  Ncz  Perce,  the  1914  rough  riding  cham- 
pion.    Beside  him  is  the  author. 

They  indeed  "hop  to  it"  in  the  cowgirls'  relay,  the  aria  of 
this  grand  opera  of  the  West.  The  rules  are  the  same  as  in  the 
cowboys'  relay  except  that  the  horses  must  be  saddled  when 
brought  to  the  track  and  riders  must  touch  the  ground  with 
feet  when  changing.  In  the  Indian  relay,  the  distance  is  one 
mile  each  day,  four  assistants  allowed,  riding  is  bareback  and 
horses  changed  each  quarter. 

A  thousand  dollar  purse  is  offered  in  this  race  besides  cer- 
tain appended  prizes  given  by  Pendleton  business  men.  Five 
hundred  dollars  cash  goes  to  the  world's  relay  race  cowgirl 
champion,  three  hundred  cash  to  the  second  winner  and  beau- 
tiful ivory  manicure  set — What?  certainly  they  use  them — and 
two  hundred  to  the  third. 

Bertha  Blancett  holds  the  record  on  wins  in  the  relay  with 
three  first,  two  seconds  and  two  thirds.  Ella  Lazinka  was  also 
a  star  rider  but  retired  in  her  third  year  of  riding  through  the 
serious  accident  elsewhere  referred  to.  She  won  the  first  relay 
held  here  against  Bertha  Blancett,  who  paid  her  the  tribute  saying 
that  Ella  Lazinka  was  the  only  rider,  horses  being  equal,  she 
ever  feared. 

Mabel  de  Long  Strickland  he  Ids  second  record  not  only  with 
three  world's  championships  but  with  second  time  of  11  minutes 
55  1-5  seconds.  Lorena  Trickey  holds  the  championship  record 
of  11  minutes  40  4-5  seconds  and  the  best  one  day  time  of 
3  minutes  52  seconds.  Katie  Canutt  rode  in  the  1918  cham- 
pionship and  third  best  time.  Dona  Card,  a  splendid  and  sports- 
manlike rider  rode  into  three  seconds  while  Vera  Maginnis, 
Fanny  Steele  and  Josephine  Sherry  all  have  done  top-notch 
riding  in  this  race. 

In  "hop  to  it"  Charlie  Irwin  of  Cheyenne  is  wrangling  for 
his  relay  rider  who  has  just  dismounted  and  now  hops  to  it  on 
the  second  horse.  The  first  is  held  by  the  assistant  on  the  right, 
the  third  and  fourth  horses  by  the  assistant  on  the  left. 

In  the  audience  are  many  well  known  faces  and  characters 
among  them  the  two  famous  old  time  stagecoach  drivers,  Dave 
Horn  and  Chas.  W.  Barger.  who  may  be  seen  just  above  the 
cantle  and  horn  respectively  of  the  saddle  of  the  horse  on 
the  left. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

doubt  that  it  belongs  to  the  ceremonial  or  War  Dance 
of  the  Red  Men,  of  the  Umatillas.  You  are  looking 
out  upon  the  descendants  of  the  tribes  that  composed 
the  great  dominating  Shahaptian  stock  of  Amerinds, 
whose  hunting  grounds  were  the  vast  territory  of  the 
Snake  River  and  the  middle  Columbia,  from  the  Bitter 
Root  Mountains  to  the  Cascade  range,  and  as  danger- 
ous a  race  as  the  whites  ever  encountered  in  their 
march  across  the  continent. 

Rainbow  blankets,  eagle-feathered  war  bonnets,  with 
their  long  streamers  down  their  backs,  necklaces  of 
bear's  claws,  embroidered  moccasins,  blankets  and 
shirts  bedecked  with  elks'  teeth,  fantastically  painted 
faces  and  near-naked  bodies  streaked  in  broad  bands  of 
ochre  and  black:  squaws  dressed  in  beautiful,  beaded 
buckskin  jackets  and  skirts,  ornamented  with  their 
wealth  of  elk's  teeth,  with  leggins  of  red  and  green 
flannel  and  plain  buckskin  moccasins,  still  seem  to  ex- 
press that  stoical  kinship  with  sun  and  earth,  water 
and  sky,  that  their  ancestors  felt  before  the  coming 
of  the  Paleface. 

It  all  goes  to  form  a  multicolored,  snake-like  line  as 
it  winds  its  course — a  colossal,  coiling  serpent  shim- 
mering in  iridescent  scales  of  reds,  greens,  yellows, 
blues,  violets,  blacks,  orange  and  whites.  Now  subtly 
twisting  it  resolves  itself  into  a  mammoth  circle  of  ever- 
changing  harmony  on  its  mat  of  yellow  sawdust. 
Here  it  metamorphoses  into  a  great  human  kaleido- 
scope, designs  a  new  spectacle  at  every  turn  and  out  of 
this  living  rainbow  evolves  the  "War  Dance"  and  the 
"Love  Dance" — the  "Indian  step  and  a  half,"  as  one 
cow-puncher  facetiously  put  in. 

"Hayal  haya!  haya!  Hay-ya! — ya-a!"  intones  the 
weird  accompanying  chant  as  hundreds  of  Amerinds 

176 


THE  ROUND-UP 

articulate  and  mill  in  the  great,  pulsating  ring,  now 
waxing  into  a  wild  swirl  of  throbbing  rhythms  that 
seem  to  strike  something  deep  at  the  very  roots  of  your 
nature.  You  realize  that  you  are  looking  upon  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  ceremonial  aggregations  that  can 
be  gathered  together  on  this  continent,  and  your  eyes 
drink  deep  of  that  riot  of  color  to  the  last  draught. 

A  flare  of  the  drum — a  single  beat — and  you  have 
that  unexpected  termination  so  characteristic  of  almost 
all  American-Indian  dancing.  Tinged  in  a  saffron 
blaze  of  glory,  the  dancers  pass  out  to  their  tepees  in 
the  cottonwoods. 

SPINNING  YARNS  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

For  a  few  ecstatic  minutes  the  remarkable  group  of 
fancy  ropers  electrify  you.  You  met  them  all  at  the 
tryouts,  you  delight  in  their  wonderful  feats  as  their 
spinning  shapes  up  the  graceful  "butterfly,"  fascinat- 
ing "ocean  wave"  and  the  marvelous  "wedding  ring" 
and  the  many  other  forms  of  juggling  and  control  at 
will  of  that  most  elusive  thing — the  lass  rope. 

Trick  riders  like  Otto  Kline,  Sid  Scale  and  Crutch- 
field,  these  you  notice,  think  nothing  of  standing  in 
light  straps  on  their  saddles,  horse  on  the  dead  run. 
Sid  sways,  he's  gone,  no  he  recovers  from  out  of  bal- 
ance. It  is  the  inimitable  drunken  ride.  Now  he  leans 
dangerously  far  back,  pours  down  a  long  draught  of 
"nose  paint"  from  a  bottle,  the  dangerously  lurching 
horse  is  on  the  dead  run.  Now  look,  he  throws  the 
bottle  high  up  in  the  air.  Hootcha'  la !  and  with  a  wild 
whoop  drops  into  his  saddle.  Just  to  show  you  it 
isn't  the  real  stuff  in  the  bottle,  they  show  you  their 

riding  is  the  real  stuff  by  all  manner  of  wonderful 
12  177 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

jumps  and  vaultings  off  and  on  and  about  their  horses. 
One  not  satisfied  with  the  others  crawhng  around  the 
neck  of  their  horses  while  on  the  run,  proceeds  to 
crawl  under  the  belly  of  his  horse  and  come  up  the 
other  side  without  slackening  its  pace. 

SWING  TO  IT! 

But  no  less  courageous  and  daring  are  the  women 
who  ride.  Whether  it  be  cow-pony  race,  standing  or 
relay,  when  you  get  such  an  aggregation  of  riders  in 
the  lists  as  Bertha  Blancett,  Mabel  Strickland,  Vera 
Maginnis,  Donna  Card,  Ella  Lazinka,  Katie  Canutt 
and  Lorena  Trickey  and  others,  the  last  word  has  been 
said  in  this  style  of  racing.  These  women  are  skilled 
in  the  lore  of  the  race  and  the  horse  no  less  than  the 
men  of  the  range.  They  not  only  put  their  horses  to 
the  utmost,  but  ride  with  consummate  knowledge  dis- 
played in  every  form  of  generalship  in  the  race.  Yet 
some  of  these  women  in  another  week,  perchance,  will 
be  about  their  domestic  duties  in  house  or  ranch.  Re- 
grettable incidents  which  happen  occasionally  go  only 
to  show  the  kind  of  stuff  of  which  these  riders  are 
made. 

The  relay  for  both  men  and  women  has  been  most 
popular  from  inception  here.  At  Pendleton  was  the 
first  contest  which  required  the  girls  to  change  their 
own  saddles,  but  they  did  compromise  a  little  by  allow- 
ing a  "drop"  stirrup,  a  heavy  leather  strap  below  the 
stirrup  to  enable  them  to  mount  more  easily,  for  the 
relay  takes  a  great  amount  of  endurance. 

The  first  contest  ever  run  here  was  between  Bertha 
Blancett  and  Ella  Lazinka.  Ella  brought  in  her  own 
string  from  her  father's  ranch  and  won  the  first  silver 

178 


THE  ROUND-UP 

cup,  also  the  second  year.  She  was  one  of  the  best 
relay  riders  ever  seen  on  the  track  here  and  an  all- 
round  cowgirl.  Unfortunately  the  third  year  she  com- 
peted, she  was  riding  a  strange  string  and  lost  the  race 
through  her  horse  crashing  against  the  fence.  A  large 
splinter  tore  into  her  leg,  but  notwithstanding  she 
gamely  finished  the  race. 

There  they  go  again  and  as  you  see  the  relay  with 
its  zip  and  thrills  and  vacillating  leads — is  a  race  in 
which  the  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd  bursts  all  bounds. 

Now,  three  pairs  of  beautiful  animals  are  led  out  on 
the  track — each  pair  mounted  by  a  rider.  At  the 
crack  of  the  pistol  they're  off,  like  the  Roman  riders 
of  old.  It  is  the  cowboys  standing  race.  But  it  is  a 
safe  bet,  that  no  ancient  Bellerophon  ever  rode  his 
Pegasus  with  greater  temerity  than  Ben  Corbett,  Hoot 
Gibson,  Otto  Kline  and  their  ilk. 

Just  watch  them  go! — How  they  do  it  is  a  marvel. 
Hoot  Gibson  is  now  on  his  second  turn  around  the 
quarter  mile  track  astride  on  his  pair  of  horses  on  the 
run — and  letting  out  all  the  way.  The  arena  of  Rome's 
ancient  Coliseum  in  the  days  of  Ben  Plur  never  saw 
faster  travelling  than  this. 

Hoot  shoots  over  the  line  in  59  2-5  seconds — re- 
markable time  on  a  quarter  mile  course. 

They're  off  again ;  but  this  time  it's  the  girls  stand- 
ing race  with  Bertha  Blancett  and  Lorena  Trickey  in 
the  lead.  How  they  tiy !  Six  consecutive  years  Bertha 
has  competed  in  this  event  with  the  marvelous  record 
of  five  world's  championships,  being  defeated  only 
once  and  that  for  second  place  by  Vera  Maginnis. 

Here  they  come !  It  is  a  close  race — Lorena  is  right 
on  Bertha's  heels,  but  it  takes  the  best  woman  rider 
living  to  outclass  Bertha  Blancett  and  none  have  so  far 

179 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

found  it  possible.  This  Round-Up  will  see  her  retire- 
ment from  arena  contests  and  she  means  this  race  shall 
be  her  best.  Watch,  how  she  makes  that  last  danger- 
ous turn  not  a  degree  of  slackening  her  beautiful 
black  mounts — Bang!  over  the  line — in  59  seconds 
flat,  being  7  1-5  seconds  under  the  best  record  time 
ever  made  in  the  cow-pony  race.  This  establishes  not 
only  a  new  record  for  the  girls  standing  race  but  1-5 
of  a  second  under  the  best  record  ever  made — which 
was  Corbett's,  and  2-5  of  a  second  better  than  that  of 
Hoot  Gibson.  All  hats  are  off  to  the  greatest  known 
all-round  woman  rider  of  today ! 

All  through  these  days  of  hilarity  and  excitement 
tear  the  races — big,  fast,  free-for-all  races  with  a 
thrill  at  every  turn.  But  none  excel  in  sustained  ex- 
citement or  better  exhibit  the  art  of  mounting  and 
riding  or  are  more  gripping  than  the  relay  and  the 
pony  express. 

The  relay  is  closely  akin  to  the  pony  express,  but  is 
a  test  of  those  prime  requisites  of  the  cowboys — to 
on  and  off  saddle,  mount,  and  ride.  No  less  than  ten 
strings  are  entered  and  half  that  number  have  been 
selected  to  compete  in  the  men's  relay.  They  include 
the  famous  strings  of  George  Drumheller,  "Sleepy" 
Armstrong,  J.  A.  Parton,  Charlie  Irwin,  Fay  LeGrow, 
Roach  Brothers,  Spain  Brothers  and  of  Ed.  McCarty. 

Look  over  the  string  right  in  front  of  us,  being  held 
now  by  two  wranglers.  One  is  to  hold  the  three  spare 
horses  and  one  to  catch  that  of  the  relay  rider  as  he 
rides  in  to  change  his  mount.  Allen  Drumheller  is 
here  in  front  of  us;  further  along  is  Nep  Lynch,  and 
on  this  side  is  Armstrong  by  his  string.  The  other 
two  riders  will  not  have  a  look  in  with  this  trio,  so 
pick  your  man.    You  haven't  much  choice.     Although 

180 


THE  ROUND-UP 

Drumheller  holds  fourth  record  in  this  event,  he  holds 
first  in  the  pony  express  and  is  considered  as  all- 
round  pretty  and  clear-headed  a  relay  and  pony  express 
rider  as  has  ever  been  seen  on  the  Pendleton  track. 

Then  Sleepy  Armstrong — well,  don't  worry  about 
that  boy's  lids  shutting  down  so  he  can't  see  when 
there's  a  relay,  or  pony  express  on,  not  to  mention  the 
cow-pony  race  in  which  he  rode  down  the  whole  bunch 
in  the  best  time  on  record  here  of  51  3-5  seconds  in 
1919. 

A  signal!  A  rush,  and  four  sets  of  stirrups  and 
latigos  simultaneously  fly  through  the  air.  You  crane 
your  neck  to  watch  the  saddles  adjusted.  You're  too 
late — four  riders  shoot  out  and  away,  having  saddled 
within  five  seconds,  and  in  a  whirlwind  of  dust  they 
swing  around  the  track. 

The  dilating  nostrils  and  nervous,  moving  ears  of 
the  waiting  horses,  fresh  from  the  range,  have  caught 
the  spirit  of  the  crowd  and  at  the  second  change  some- 
thing happens  when  number  three  horse  prefers  kick- 
ing to  saddling,  and  then  bucking,  leaves  his  rider 
hopelessly  in  the  rear. 

Here  they  come  for  the  first  change,  Drumheller  in 
the  lead.  De  Young,  the  first  relay  rider  on  the  Round- 
Up  track,  is  his  helper  now  and  a  better,  cleverer 
wrangler  could  not  be  found.  Watch  Allen — he's  off 
his  horse,  has  off-saddled  and  on  and  is  away  again 
with  a  bound  in  less  time  than  has  taken  to  tell  this. 
But  "Sleepy"  is  right  there,  scratching  his  heels,  and 
Lynch  is  only  half  a  length  behind  the  others  who 
now  string  out  a  bit. 

They're  around  again — Armstrong  a  little  in  the 
lead,  but  look  quick — see  that  marvelous  dismount, 
while  his  horse  is  on  the  run  still  by  Lynch,  whose 

181 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

horse  is  secured  by  the  wrangler,  Ben  Corbett,  with 
one  of  his  spectacular  jumps  for  the  horse,  seizing 
him  by  the  neck  as  he  comes  in.  Here  Lynch  gains 
and  is  off  almost  at  the  same  moment  as  Drumheller 
but  in  the  fore  part  of  that  moment  which  beats  Drum- 
heller out  by  a  length.  The  crowd  thunders  its  ap- 
plause at  such  marvellous  work.  It's  the  last  lap  and 
the  last  day.  Lynch  seemingly  does  not  gain  another 
inch,  neither  does  he  lose  an  inch  and  rides  over  the 
line  just  ahead  of  Drumheller  by  a  fraction  of  a  second. 

The  quality  of  the  riding  was  the  finest  ever  seen 
at  Pendleton.  That  every  man  was  an  expert  was  at- 
tested by  the  totals  of  the  three-days'  heats,  in  which 
was  a  difference  of  only  2  1-5  seconds  between  the  win- 
ner and  Drumheller  and  10  1-5  seconds  between  the 
winner  and  Armstrong  who  finished  third.  The  light- 
ning changes  of  all  three  were  marvelous,  ofif-saddling 
nine  times,  on-saddling  twelve,  one  riding  a  six  miles 
on  the  quarter  mile  track  in  12  minutes  24  2-5  seconds 
making  third  best  time  ever  made,  the  record  being 
12  minutes  7  seconds  made  by  Scoop  Martin.  At  the 
end  of  the  third  day  the  three  riders  have  off-saddled 
twenty-seven  times,  on-saddled  thirty-six  times,  ridden 
eighteen  miles  on  a  quarter  mile  track  in  thirty-seven 
minutes  and  twenty-seven  seconds. 

The  relay  has  keyed  the  crowd  to  a  pitch  which  has 
but  whetted  its  appetite  for  the  pony  express.  The 
old-time  pony  express  with  its  thrills,  spills  and  light- 
ning changes  is  the  ancestor  of  the  mail  and  parcels 
post  of  today.  The  primitive  messenger  of  this  mail 
service  was  strong  as  he  was  light,  cautious  as  he  was 
fearless,  a  quick  thinker  and  hard  rider,  a  man  with  a 
determined  soul  and  picked  for  his  job. 

There  were  men,  old  and  grizzled,  who  looked  out 

182 


THE  ROUND-UP 

from  grandstand  and  bleacher,  hardy  riders  of  a  day- 
gone  by  who  rode  many  a  grim  race,  often  pitting  wits 
and  strength  against  death  in  a  hundred  forms  on 
lonely,  wild  races  with  no  plaudits  sounding  in  their 
ears.  Many  unknown  graves  mark  where  they  fell  by 
arrow,  bullet  or  stumbled  horse,  and  history  has  yet 
to  pay  due  tribute  to  the  pony  express  rider. 

We  now  see  the  strings  of  two  cow-ponies  in 
charge  of  two  assistants  led  out  in  front  of  the  grand- 
stand, and  we  realize  that  the  pony  express  has  be- 
come the  pastime  of  the  cowboy,  and  the  race  is  run 
to  commemorate  the  skill  of  the  old  pony  express 
riders.  Like  all  the  events  of  The  Round-Up,  it  has 
its  rules  which  are  rigidly  enforced.  It  is  run  on  each 
of  the  three  days  with  cow-ponies,  and  no  racer  or 
professional  horse  can  enter.  The  first  pony  must  run 
first  and  third  quarters,  and  the  second  pony  go  the 
second  and  fourth  quarters,  while  riders  must  mount 
"pony  express"  which  means  the  riders  must  hug  the 
saddle,  suspend  and  hit  the  ground  at  least  once  with 
the  horse  in  full  stride  before  vaulting  into  the  saddle. 
When  you  get  such  riders  as  Drumheller,  Saunders, 
Floyd  Irwin,  Tommy  Grimes,  Jason  Stanley  and 
Braden  Gerking,  in  the  bewildering  quick  changes  of 
the  "pony  express" — you  see  a  survival  of  the  type  of 
the  old  dare-devil  riders — the  cowboy  mail  carriers 
through  the  country  of  outlaws  and  hostile  Indians. 

The  horses  are  pawin',  hoofin'  and  rarin'  to  go. 
They're  off  1  The  grandstand  rises  en  masse  as  the  rid- 
ers play  for  the  pole.  The  crowd  lets  loose,  the  high- 
pitched  range  yells  echo  from  the  cowboy  contingent, 
some  Indians  yip,  others  watch  stoically,  while  the 
helper  awaits  the  arrival  of  his  riding  partner  with  a 
cigarette  airily  hanging  from  a  corner  of  his  mouth. 

183 


RIDE  'IM  COWBOY 

For 

EVEN  HORSES  RIDE  AT  THE  ROUND-UP 

Up  goes  Hotfoot,  "skyscraping"  and  "cake-walking"  and  often 
down  goes  the  buckaroo,  but  not  so  with  Wiley  Blancett,  who 
is  making  a  splendid  ride.  This  is  but  one  of  the  many  ways 
buckers  have  of  unseating  their  riders.  Blancett  will  be  for- 
tunate if  Hotfoot  is  satisfied  without  throwing  himself  over 
backwards. 

"Even  horses  ride  at  the  Round-Up."  If  you  are  skeptical,  it  is 
proved  by  this  picture  of  the  big,  fighting,  dapple-gray,  Sledge- 
hammer. He  is  well  named,  for  whether  under  a  buckaroo  or  in 
the  saddle  himself,  he  never  does  anything  other  than  in  a  thor- 
oughly pile-driving  way. 

In  no  phase  of  any  event  does  there  occur  a  greater  variety  or 
more  unusual  happenings  than  in  the  wrangling,  and  this  episode 
was  one  of  the  most  unique. 

Sledgehammer  has  been  "snubbed"  by  the  wranglers,  to  the 
saddle  horn  of  the  snubbing  horse,  where  not  content  with  fore- 
striking  at  the  mounted  wrangler  until  he  has  forced  him  out  of 
the  saddle,  has  literally  jumped  into  the  saddle  himself  with  all 
four  feet,  which  eventually  bore  the  little  snubbing  horse  to  the 
ground.    Such  is  the  gentle  art  of  wrangling. 


A  PRETTY  RIDE  WITH  HOBBLED  STIRRUPS 

Has  Nothing  On 

THE  QUEEN  OF  REINLAND  GRACING  HER  THRONE 

Perhaps  no  phase  of  the  Round-Up  produces  quite  the  same 
psychological  sensation  as  the  women's  bucking  contest,  for  at 
its  easiest  it  is  hard  and  dangerous.  Consequently  the  Round- 
Up  permits  only  the  most  skillful  and  proven  cowgirl  riders 
to  enter.  But  a  few  of  those  entrants  ride  "slick,"  that  is  ap- 
proved form  and  without  "hobbled  stirrups."  In  fact  in  the 
entire  history  of  the  Round-Up  the  women  who  have  ridden  slick 
can  be  numbered  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand — Bertha  Blancett, 
Nettie  Hawn,  Fanny  Sperry   Steele  and  Tillie  Baldwin. 

The  rider  is  Prairie  Rose  Smith  making  a  pretty  ride  on 
Wiggles  with  hobbled  stirrups,  but  hobbled  stirrups  or  not  it 
takes  courage  and  a  splendid  rider  to  stay  these  buckers.  If  you 
doubt,  try  it. 

Few  queens  have  vouchsafed  to  occupy  thrones  less  secure 
than  that  supreme  one  offered  by  the  parliament  of  the  Round- 
Up  each  year — the  world  championship  saddle  of  the  cowgirls' 
bucking  contest.  No  cowgirl  queen  reined  as  completely  or  as 
often  as  Bertha  Blancett,  who  has  over  a  period  of  six  con- 
secutive years  ridden  into  four  cowgirls'  world's  bucking  cham- 
pionships and  into  two  hotly  contested  second  places. 

Among  the  Round-Up  horses  she  has  ridden  are  Spike,  Demp- 
sey.  Snake,  at  Cheyenne  she  rode  the  famous  bucker  Dynamite 
and  at  the  Calgary  "Stampede"  rode  that  equine  devil  Red 
Wine  which  killed  Joe  Lcmare. 

Bertha  Blancett  always  rides  "slick"  and  is  not  only  one  of 
the  greatest  all-round  horsewomen  of  the  world,  but  the  best 
all-round  range  woman  America  has  produced.  She  had  the 
remarkable  distinction  in  1916  of  having  come  within  one  point 
of  winning  the  all-round  championship  on  both  cowboys'  and 
cowgirls'  points,  and  would  have  done  so,  had  not  one  of  her 
horses  in  the  relay  race  jumped  the  fence. 

How  did  she  learn?  Why  this  daughter  of  a  rancher  from 
childhood  was  bred  on  the  range — got  her  schooling  on  the 
barebacks  of  wild  colts  and  took  her  domestic  science  lessons 
by  making  butter  of  her  father's  dairy  ahead  of  time  by  riding 
her  dad's  milch  cows  nearly  to  death. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

One  man  is  bucked  clean  off;  another's  mount  leaps 
the  fence  into  the  arena.  They  swing  around  the  nar- 
row curve,  where  the  rider's  game  is  to  guide  his  horse 
to  his  relay  without  slackening  speed  too  soon. 

Then  occurs  the  special  event  of  this  race — chang- 
ing horses.  Each  swings  from  his  horse,  still  on  the 
run ;  his  helper  springs  to  it  and  at  the  same  time  turns 
the  relay  over  to  the  rider,  who,  without  a  second's 
pause,  makes  the  "pony  express"  mount.  This  is  a 
flying  leap,  without  the  use  of  stirrup,  into  the  saddle 
after  the  horse  starts  and  is  off  on  the  run.  One  man's 
horse  breaks  clean  away  on  the  change  but  from  habit 
due  to  training  them  in  the  tryouts  for  this  run,  it 
circles  the  track  once  and  returns  to  his  own  mate. 

There — a  horse  is  down;  it's  Gerking,  but  he's  up 
asfain  and  has  not  lost  his  horse  either,  for  all  in  one 
motion  he  seems  to  be  in  his  saddle  again,  eventually 
pulling  in  for  second  place.  With  tear  and  rush  off 
they  go  again,  and  when  Allen  Drumheller,  after  three 
days'  races,  pulls  out  his  three  miles  with  his  twelve 
flying  mounts  and  nine  changings  of  horses  in  6  min- 
utes 18  1-5  seconds  and  establishes  the  high  record  of 
all  championship  riders  in  this  event,  you  admit  there 
never  was  a  play  with  faster  action  or  more  vivid 
touches  of  reality. 

LET   'ER   BUCK 

There  is  a  stir  in  the  crowd  as  it  readjusts  itself. 
Heads  bob  and  necks  crane  now  to  glimpse  the  few 
little  bunches  in  the  arena,  each  with  a  snubbing  horse, 
bucker  and  the  wranglers.  Nearer  us  where  the 
saddles  are  parked  on  the  ground  about  the  big 
pole  surmounted  by  the  announcer's  crow's  nest,  the 

186 


THE  ROUND-UP 

contestants  await  the  call.  The  women  are  now  to 
compete. 

Sensational  rides  are  always  made  by  every  one 
of  the  cowgirl  contestants,  but  all  save  Bertha  Blan- 
cett,  Nettie  Hawn,  Fanny  Sperry  Steele  and  Tilly 
Baldwin  ride  with  hobble  stirrups ;  but  hobble  stirrups 
or  not,  the  hurricane  deck  of  a  bucking  bronc  is  no 
place  for  a  clinging  vine,  and  it  was  a  close  contest 
between  these  champions. 

When  Bertha  Blancett's  father  took  all  the  docile 
horses  away  to  prevent  his  little  seven-year-old  from 
riding  them,  she  learned  to  "handle  and  ride,"  by  cap- 
turing wild  colts  and  riding  the  milch  cows  nearly  to 
death.  In  1904,  she  not  only  rode  the  famous  bucker, 
Dynamite,  at  Cheyenne,  but  at  Calgary  drew  and  rode 
that  wicked  animal,  Red  Wing,  which  killed  Joe  Le- 
mare.  Out  of  five  annual  contests  she  entered  at  Pen- 
dleton, she  rode  out  of  the  arena  with  three  world's 
bucking  championships  and  two  second  trophies — the 
greatest  record  made  by  any  woman  rider  here. 

In  the  cowgirls'  class  none  but  those  who  have  been 
tried  out  and  proved  star  riders  are  allowed  to  take 
chances,  whereas  any  old  cowboy  is  welcome  to 
risk  his  neck;  and  in  this  contrast  is  an  interesting 
phase  of  the  psychology  of  the  crowd,  who  dearly  love 
to  see  a  cowboy  bucked  off,  but  who  take  no  delight  in 
seeing  a  cowgirl  go  the  same  way. 

"Going  up!"  says  someone  behind  us,  and  sure 
enough,  auburn-haired  Minnie  Thompson  in  her  at- 
tractive leather-fringed  skirt  is  swinging  into  the 
saddle  over  Sugar  Foot  and  the  bucking  is  on — and 
Minnie  stays  her  horse  in  a  pretty  ride.  Katie  Can- 
nutt,  Lorena  Trickey  and  Mildred  Douglas,  all  of 
whom  have  won  first   honors   in   recent   Round-Ups 

187 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

ride  into  rounds  of  applause.  Nettie  Hawn  makes  a 
beautiful  ride  on  the  wicked  Snake,  the  kind  which  in 
1913  made  her  the  cowgirl  champion  of  the  world. 

There  are  rides  and  good  ones,  too,  by  Princess 
Redbird,  the  Indian  girl,  Ollie  Osborn,  Prairie  Rose 
Henderson,  Ruth  Roach,  Eloise  Hastings,  Peggy 
Warren,  well  known  here  through  several  years  of 
game  and  classy  riding,  all  of  whom  have  won  second 
or  third  places  in  the  contests.  Then,  too,  there  is 
Blanche  McGaughey.  She's  ready  to  mount.  Wait  a 
minute;  and  she  tucks  a  pretty  embroidered  handker- 
chief in  her  belt  remarking : — 

'T  don't  want  to  lose  my  powder  puff." 

"Does  yer  nose  need  some  nose  paint?"  remarked 
the  male  brute  who  was  handing  her  the  halter 
rope. 

Scar  Leg  did  his  best,  but  Blanche  rode  like  an 
Amazon  and  another  sensation  is  added  to  your 
collection. 

That  chivalric  attitude  which  permeates  spectators 
is  also  characteristic  of  the  buckaroo,  and  was  evi- 
denced in  the  quiet  remark  of  "Skeeter"  Bill  Robbins 
when  he  turned  to  me  after  plucky  Peggy  Warren  was 
pulled  from  beneath  the  fallen  bucker,  and  said,  "I 
sure  hate  to  see  a  girl  git  hurt." 

Bertha  Blancett  is  climbing  into  the  saddle  of  Ram- 
bling Jimmie,  who  takes  a  small  fraction  of  a  second 
to  bear  out  his  name  and  not  only  rambles  in  great 
jumps  across  the  arena  smashing  through  the  arena 
fence,  but,  not  satisfied,  hits  through  to  the  outer  fence 
before  he  is  taken  up.  Now  again,  you  see  Bertha 
away  in  great  swinging,  snorting  bounds  on  that  buck- 
jumper  Dempsey.  All  through  this  marvelous  rider 
shows  a  headiness  and  control  never  before  demon- 

188 


THE  ROUND-UP 

strated  by  any  other  rider  of  her  sex.  Look  at  the 
superb  saddle  she  sits,  riding  straight;  but  she  rides 
slick  from  start  to  finish  in  a  way  to  satisfy  the  most 
keen-eyed,  hard-boiled  judge — see,  fans  him,  too,  at 
every  jump,  and  on  the  last  jumps  into  the  world's 
cowgirl  bucking  championship. 

"Ride  'im!  Ride  'im!  Sit  up  on  that  burra," 
yelled  Jess  Erunn  to  Eloise  Hastings  of  Cheyenne  as 
he  jerked  the  blind  off  of  Bug's  blinkers — and  ride 
him  she  does  into  third  place.  As  she  alights  from  the 
bucker,  you  see  her  hand  fumble  indefinitely  around 
her  waist  to  the  pocket-flap  of  her  skirt. 

"Is  she  hurt?"  you  ask. — Listen! 

"Gee,  Jess!  I  kept  my  chewing  gum  just  where 
I  stuck  it." 

What  is  the  peculiar  psychological  phenomenon  that 
now  seems  to  sweep  around  the  great  living  oval  of 
humanity  like  the  soft  fanning  of  a  warm  chinook 
wind.  You  feel  it — everyone  feels  it  a  great,  invisible 
mental  rustle  which  sets  the  whole  arena  on  edge — 
then  you  know,  when  from  nearly  forty  thousand 
throats  the  Round-Up  slogan  ascends  in  one  vast  roar 
— "Let  'er  buck!"  It  echoes  and  reechoes  until  it  dies 
away  in  the  interest  of  the  king  of  range  sports  which 
it  proclaims — the  cowboy's  bucking  contest  for  the 
championship  of  the  world. 

It  is  the  rough-riding  in  which  the  greatest  interest 
and  keenest  judgment  centers,  for  Pendleton  brings 
together  the  great  exponents  of  the  art,  most  of  them 
fresh  from  corral  and  sagebrush.  The  restive,  furtive 
outlaws  are  now  led  out.  The  buckaroos  troop  across 
the  arena  and  park  their  saddles  in  front  of  the  judges' 
stand.  The  crowd  is  on  edge  with  expectancy  for  the 
thrills  of  this  most  nerve-tightening  event. 

189 


WHY  THIS  ONE  WAS  NOT  IN  THE  FINALS 

The  main  reason  being  that  one  must  not  get  so  far  away  from 
the  saddle  even  if  the  horse  does  play  "peek-a-boo"  with  it.  But 
that  able  and  game  little  rider,  Bonnie  McCarroll,  knows  that  Sil- 
ver let  'er  buck.  To  analyze  the  cause,  one  has  but  to  take  note 
of  the  broken  hobble  strap  on  the  up-thrown  stirrup. 

Hobbling  stirrups,  consists  in  strapping  them  together  under 
the  horse's  belly  which  keeps  them  down  and  greatly  aids  the 
rider  in  keeping  a  seat.  How  important  this  is,  this  picture  amply 
illustrates.  It  also  demonstrates  that  hobbled  stirrups  have  their 
distinct  disadvantages  in  that,  when  they  break,  the  rider  is  taken 
off  guard  and  finds  it  impossible  to  so  suddenly  adapt  herself  to 
the  other  form  of  riding. 

Also,  if  a  horse  falls,  the  rider  finds  it  much  more  difficult  to 
disengage  herself  or  keep  her  form  or  position  in  relation  to  the 
saddle,  all  of  which  greatly  increases  her  danger.  But  the  inherent 
chivalry  of  not  only  the  public,  but  the  cowboy,  makes  them  shrink 
from  witnessing  injury  to  a  woman.  This  was  evidenced  by 
Skeeter  Bill  Robbins  after  Brown  Eyes  fell  and  rolled  on  Peggy 
Warren's  foot;  crossing  half  the  arena  in  about  three  leaps  to 
rescue  her,  he  then  rubbed  his  sleeve  across  his  sweaty  forehead 
and  remarked,  "I  sure  do  hate  ter  see  a  girl  git  hurt." 


HE  WOULD  RIDE  THAT  WAY 

With  the  Other  It's 
ALL  OVER  BUT  THE  SINGING 

The  incidental  ups  and  downs  o£  the  buckaroos'  and  buck- 
ers'  lives  during  even  the  three  days  of  the  Round-Up,  would  fill 
several  books  and  each  book  would  have  a  kick  in  every  sentence. 
Cowboys  will  come  and  cowboys  will  go  but  the  spirit  of  the 
Round-Up  will  go  on  forever. 

Newcomers  will  ride  in  future  Round-Ups  and  leave  their 
mark  and  a  second  edition  of  this  book  may  carry  on  the  record 
but  they'll  have  to  aim  high  to  beat  the  standard  the  past  and 
present  contestants  have  set.  But  they'll  ride  fair,  play  the  game 
and  do  their  part  to  keep  it  a  pure  sport.  The  cleanness  of  the 
sport  is  no  better  evidenced  than  in  the  consideration  and  fair- 
ness shown  the  animals,  not  to  mention  the  credit  and  admira- 
tion given  them  in  the  part  they  play  in  the  game. 

The  Round-Up  rules  prescribe,  that  a  rider  may  neither  knot 
his  halter  rope  at  the  end  nor  wrap  it  around  his  hand ;  he  may  not 
touch  any  portion  of  his  saddle.  This  act  is  known  as  "pulling 
leather"  or  still  worse  grasp  the  horn  of  his  saddle  which  is 
"choking  the  biscuit."  He  may  not  show  daylight  under  the  sad- 
dle, loose  a  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  even  for  an  instant  or  in  any 
way  artificially  support  himself;  a  violation  of  any  of  these  will 
disqualify  him  in  his  ride,  even  the  observance  of  them  in  a 
sloppy  manner  or  in  a  fearsome  or  too  safe  a  way  will  deny  him 
even  a  look  in  to  the  finals. 

There  are  many  rules  it  is  true,  but  the  big  idea  is  to  stay  on 
top.  There  is  no  rule,  however,  against  cinching  in  spurs  but  it 
isn't  desirable  and  sometimes  is  most  dangerous  if  a  horse  falls 
or  the  rider  is  thrown  and  hung  up  in  the  cinch.  Of  course  such 
accidents  as  a  halter  coming  off  is  the  least  of  a  top-notch  buck- 
aroo's  troubles,  likely  as  not  he  can  ride  him  without.  A  stirrup 
breaking  gives  him  a  little  more  bother,  but  the  saddle  slipping 
either  over  the  bucker's  head  or  under  his  belly  is  more  serious, 
for  the  rider  has  either  to  stay  with  it  or  leave  it,  which  dashes 
his  hopes  if  not  him.  To  be  hung  up  in  the  stirrup  and  dragged 
is  a  most  dangerous  proceeding  although  Buddie  Sterling  rode  C. 
Cross  that  way.  But  C.  Cross  had  a  powerful  manner  of  bucking 
and  an  indelicate  way  of  trampling  on  his  rider  when  down,  at 
which  times  it  was  "all  over  but  the  singing."  This  rider  kissed 
the  dust  after  choking  the  horn  of  the  saddle  which  is  the  S.  O.  S. 
of  the  bucking  code.  This  horse  he  gave  a  buck  or  two  and — 
nearly  killed  the  buckaroo. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

You  see  at  a  glance  that  those  big,  raw-boned  cow- 
boys striding  across  the  arena  with  their  saddles  are 
real  cowboys  who  have  ridden  long  hours  in  all  sorts 
of  weather.  Most  of  them  have  mingled  with  des- 
perate men.  There  is  one  among  them  who  unfor- 
tunately has  "time"  to  serve — they  say  it  was  horse 
rustling — but  he  rides  too  well  to  let  a  little  thing  like 
that  prevent  him  entering  these  contests,  so  for  a  few 
days  he  is  out  on  parole. 

There  is  no  more  important  adjunct  in  cowboy 
routine  than  the  cow-horse,  worth  $300  today  in  the 
open  market,  a  horse  which  knows  the  art  of  the 
game — how  to  ford,  swim,  and  avoid  quicksands, 
dodge  the  traps  of  the  prairie  dog  and  gopher,  to  move 
furtively  in  a  prairie  herd  so  as  not  to  stampede  it, 
how  to  "cut  out,"  and  then  to  follow  the  quarry  advan- 
tageously in  every  turn,  to  withstand  the  sudden  shock 
of  the  tautened  lasso,  and  finally  to  hold  it  when  the 
thrown  steer  is  to  be  tied.  But  before  the  cow-pony 
goes  through  this  schooling  he  must,  when  about  three 
or  four  years  old,  be  brought  wild  from  the  range, 
roped,  and  ridden.  From  this  phase  of  ranch  life — 
broncho  busting — has  developed  the  sport  of  riding, 
particularly  bad  bucking  horses,  and  those  ridden  at 
the  Pendleton  Round-Up  are  as  bad  as  they  make 
them,  whether  they  be  "show  bucker,"  "trained 
bucker,"  "outlaw,"  or  "wild  horse." 

A  horse  that  bucks  hard,  straight  away,  with  nose 
between  front  feet,  is  not  necessarily  a  bad  kind  of 
bucker  for  the  expert  to  ride.  Still  he  looks  well  from 
the  grandstand,  and  in  consequence  is  known  as  a 
"show  bucker,"  but  he  is  never  used  as  a  semi-final. 

A  "wild  horse"  is  one  that  has  roamed  the  range 
and  has  never  before  known  the  feel  of  headstall  or 

192 


THE  ROUND-UP 

saddle.  A  "wild  horse"  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  puts 
up  a  live  and  game  fight,  but  may  or  may  not  be 
difficult  for  the  broncho  buster. 

The  trained  bucker  is  in  the  middle  class  between 
the  "show  bucker"  and  the  "outlaw"  and  usually  ap- 
pears in  the  semi-finals.  However,  the  term  "trained" 
is  somewhat  a  misnomer,  for  the  horse  is  not  trained 
in  any  sense  but  has  simply  been  encouraged  to  excel 
in  his  wicked  ways. 

It  is  the  "outlaw,"  however,  that  is  the  bugbear  of 
the  buckaroo,  a  persistent  bucker,  which,  if  he  cannot 
unload  his  man  one  way,  tries  another  and  still  an- 
other. Both  trained  bucker  and  outlaw,  with  all  fours 
off  the  ground,  often  make  such  gyrations  known  as 
the  "side  wind,"  "cake  walk,"  "the  double  O,"  "the 
cork  screw"  or  perhaps  they  "sunfish,"  "twist," 
"weave,"  "straight  buck,"  "circle,"  "sky  scrape," 
"high  role,"  "high  dive,"  or  put  on  the  most  dangerous 
of  tricks  the  "side  throw"  and  "fall  back"  in  order  "to 
shake  the  clinging  thing  from  his  back. 

It  is  because  of  their  proficiency  with  unusual 
methods  of  bucking  that  they  are  set  aside  when  the 
spring  herd  is  rounded  up;  and  some  of  the  worst  of 
these  from  ranches  all  over  Oregon  or  even  from  the 
Mexican  border  to  Canada  are  eventually  acquired  for 
the  Round-Up  contests  at  Pendleton. 

Nowhere  can  such  a  large  proportion  of  spectators 
be  found  who  know  the  game  so  well  from  start  to 
finish,  who  live  it  part  of  the  time  themselves,  or  whose 
affiliations  as  ranchers,  stockmen,  or  business  men  with 
ranch  interests  qualify  them  so  well  as  judges. 

The  remarks  made  from  the  grandstand  and  bleach- 
ers are  often  as  instructive  as  they  are  humorous. 
But  it  is  the  Round-Up  slogan,  "Let  'er  buck,"  that 

"  193 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

most  often  echoes  across  the  arena.  It  is  particularly 
in  point  when  you  see  an  "outlaw"  horse  displaying 
every  ounce  of  strength,  cleverness,  and  viciousness  to 
unseat  his  rider,  and  the  rider  displaying  every  art 
known  to  horsemanship  in  his  efforts  to  stay  on — and 
in  most  cases  staying  on.  Yet  even  the  fearless  char- 
acter and  ability  of  the  riders  fail  in  many  hotly 
contested  fights.  There  are  horses  and  men  new  to 
Pendleton.  The  latter  evidently  have  aspirations,  some 
of  which  are  of  short  duration. 

It  is  astonishing  though,  how  in  the  excitement  of 
the  fight  the  human  mind  often  loses  all  sense  of  time. 
One  visiting  lady  from  the  Sunny  South  related  after 
the  show  that  the  man  rode  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes. 
Undoubtedly  some  felt  that  way  afterwards.  But  even 
in  the  grandstand  among  the  experts,  old-timers  and 
judges,  claims  and  bets  were  made  on  time  as  high  as 
two  and  three  minutes.  As  a  result  of  this  discussion 
Judge  Charles  Marsh,  the  Round-Up  secretary  had 
the  timers  record  kept  showing  the  time  each  rider 
rode  from  when  the  gun  was  fired  until  the  horse 
was  taken  up,  including  the  buck  and  run,  dur- 
ing the  Nineteen  Seventeen  Round-Up.  They  found 
that  the  maximum  time  of  any  ride  was  only  thirty 
seconds.  The  result  of  this  record  is  interesting — 
here  it  is  at  the  back  of  this  volume;  it  is  called  "The 
Bucking-Time  Table,"  there  is  also  "The  Rode  and 
Thrown  Table"  and  "The  Buckers'  Own  Table,"  but 
glance  over  them  later,  for  the  buckers  are  being 
placed  in  position  by  the  wranglers. 

Most  riders  give  exhibitions  which  last  less  than 
thirty  seconds,  and  some  of  the  best  buckers  will  un- 
load their  riders  ir  twenty  seconds  or  not  at  all.  The 
judges  often  smile  tolerantly  at  a  show  bucker,  and 

194 


THE  ROUND-UP 

let  the  horse  wear  himself  out  more  before  the  pistol 
barks  for  the  "pick  up"  men  or  "herders"  to  take  him 
up,"  that  is,  ride  down  and  seize  him.  But  the  trained 
bucker  and  the  outlaw  are  watched  carefully,  and  thirty 
seconds  is  plenty  of  time  to  judge  the  buckaroo's  rid- 
ing ability.  Then,  that  his  bucking  may  not  unneces- 
sarily wear  out  the  horse  or  break  him,  he  is  taken 
up. 

There  are  famous  outlaw  horses  whose  indomitable 
spirit  has  never  been  broken  and  whose  names  stand 
high  on  the  lists  of  these  championship  contests 
throughout  the  West,  When  such  horses  as  Long 
Tom,  Angel,  No  Name,  Whistling  Annie  and  Casey 
Jones,  get  into  action  at  Pendleton  you  see  real  bucking. 

The  buckaroo  was  not  born  yesterday.  He  knows 
only  too  well  that  to  have  even  a  "look  in"  at  the  cham- 
pionship he  must  observe  the  rules  of  the  game,  ride 
with  only  a  halter  and  halter  rope  instead  of  a  bridle 
and  reins  and  on  a  saddle,  as  prescribed  by  the 
Round-Up. 

This  is  minus  the  great  bucking  rolls  which  some 
riders  affect  and  of  course  without  locked  spurs,  hob- 
bled stirrups  or  unusual  contrivances  of  any  kind.  He 
must  ride  not  only  with  style,  but  "slick" — that  is, 
straight  up,  with  a  close  seat,  and  no  daylight  showing 
through — and  must  not  shift  the  halter-rope  from  one 
hand  to  the  other.  He  must  "rake"  with  blunted  spur 
by  swinging  his  legs  from  shoulder  to  rump,  and,  to 
cap  the  climax,  "fan"  the  horse  at  every  jump  by 
swinging  his  hat  with  a  full-arm  sweep  to  and  fro, 
and,  above  all  things,  he  must  avoid  "pulling  leather" 
that  is,  touching  the  horn  or  any  other  part  of  the 
saddle  with  either  hand  or  supporting  himself  in  any 
way. 

195 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

When  one  sees  a  rider  combine  these  facts  and  as 
has  been  done  add  a  puff  now  and  then  from  a  cigarette 
into  the  bargain,  while  a  dynamo  of  vicious  energy 
beneath  him  is  trying  to  kick  himself  in  the  chin  with 
his  hind  legs  and  using  every  resource  which  horse 
flesh  knows  how  to  use,  one  must  admit  that  nowhere 
in  the  world  can  such  riding  be  equalled. 

"Them  buckers  they're  wrangling  sure  be  rarin'  ter 
go,"  chews  a  ranch  hand  behind  us.  They  sure 
"be." 

Look  down  in  the  arena  where  every  eye  is  cen- 
tered, on  a  group  of  four  wranglers  and  two  horses. 
Watch  Bill  Ridings,  Jess  Brunn,  Missouri  Slim  and 
little  old  Winnamucca  Jack,  the  Indian,  a  good  wran- 
gler and  hand.  You  soon  learn  from  his  forestriking, 
catlike  twists,  turns,  biting  and  kicks  that  the 
four-legged  brute  has  never  known  man  as  master, 
and  that  "wrangling"  is  no  dance  hall  manager's 
vocation. 

"Slim"  Ridings  now  gets  the  horse  tethered  up  and 
blindfolded  ready  for  the  saddle  but  the  cowboy  or 
his  helper  will  saddle.  Then  as  on  the  range,  the 
wranglers  will  leave  the  rest  to  the  rider — taking  out 
the  rough  from  his  own  horse.  The  wrangler's  job  is 
in  itself  a  very  dangerous  phase  of  the  game.  The 
first  move  with  the  horse  in  hand  is  to  work  an  old 
gunny-sack  as  a  blindfold  over  the  bucker's  eyes 
between  his  halter  leathers.  This  can  be  done  with 
many. 

It's  that  small  grey  "Snake" !  Watch  the  beggar  as 
on  any  attempt  to  tuck  the  gunny-sack  blind  between 
his  halter  leathers  or  approach  him,  he  strikes  out 
viciously  with  his  fore  feet ;  he's  no  beauty  doctor,  his 
massage  is  bad  for  the  complexion.    There  1  a  wrangler 

196 


THE  ROUND-UP 

is  down,  and  gets  off  with  but  a  slight  cut  on  the  head. 
But  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  are  centered  on  Sledge- 
hammer, the  big  dapple-grey  farther  along.  His 
head  is  now  snubbed  by  the  snubbing  rope  which  is 
"half  hitched"  around  the  saddle  horn  of  the  mounted 
wrangler,  who,  seated  in  the  saddle,  holds  the  power- 
ful, vicious  brute  close  nose  up  to  the  horn. 

Sledgehammer  does  all  that  is  expected  of  him  and 
a  little  more.  Not  satisfied  with  charging  the  wrangler 
out  of  saddle,  he  strikes  at  him  with  fore  legs,  clears 
him  out  of  the  saddle  and  then  jumps  after  him  him- 
self, landing  sqarely  in  the  saddle  of  the  snubbing 
horse,  all  four  feet  gathered  under  him,  reaching  a 
sensational  climax  when  he  rides  the  other  smaller 
animal  to  the  ground. 

"Swing  to  'im  Red."  It's  "Red"  Parker  mount- 
ing that  harmless-looking  little  beast,  "Culdesac." 
The  bleachers  tell  you  that  both  horse  and  rider  are 
well  known.  He  bucks!  Watch  the  lightning-like 
plunges  of  the  vicious  equine  devil,  twisting  and  turn- 
ing like  an  electrified  grapevine. 

"Ride  'im,  cowboy,"  and  ride  him  he  does  until 
taken  up. 

"Saddle  'im  or  bust,"  yells  a  pock-marked,  freckle- 
faced  ranch  hand  from  up  Gibbon  way,  as  Winna- 
mucca  Jack  and  the  outfit  of  wranglers  fight  it  out 
with  a  bad  actor.  It's  this  new  horse,  that  spotted 
Indian  Cayuse,  McKay,  to  which  the  interest  now 
gravitates,  as  well  as  to  the  youngest  rider  who  ever 
rode  at  the  Round-Up — Darrell  Cannon  a  fourteen 
year  old  buckaroo. 

Old  Winnamucca  after  the  Indian's  habit  of  affec- 
tion for  children  seems  to  have  a  genuine  paternal  in- 
terest in  the  young  kid.    The  blindfold  is  on,  then  the 

197 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

saddle — carefully  now  the  old  Winnamucca  cinches  up 
and  looks  everything  over.  The  lad  cautiously  adjusts 
himself  in  the  seat,  the  redman  gives  him  a  fatherly 
pat  on  the  leg. 

"My  boy!  he  Tide  um!"  and  jumps  away  as  the 
blindfold  is  jerked  off.  A  sudden  spring,  then  like  a 
cyclone  the  cayuse  starts  sunfishing  by  throwing  his 
hind  legs  alternately  to  the  right  and  left  while  jump- 
ing with  all  four  feet  off  the  ground. 

"Stay  with  'im  cowboy !"  yell  the  bleachers,  as  the 
little  animal  twists,  squirms,  jumps,  and  pivots  as  only 
an  Indian  pony  can.  The  boy  is  game,  and  even 
though  the  halter  slips  off,  rides  straight. 

"That  man  has  only  one  hand,"  comments  a 
stranger. 

"That's  John  Spain!"  responds  a  rancher.  "He 
said  he'd  ride,  and  drew  Skyrocket,  and  he  won't  back 
out,  neither." 

We  soon  see  one  of  the  gamest  exhibitions  of  The 
Round-Up  given  by  the  former  champion  of  1911 
when,  through  all  the  cyclonic  convolutions  of  that 
outlaw,  Spain  shows  that  he  can  ride  not  only  Avithout 
one  hand  but  without  both  if  necessary. 

"Scratch  'im,  Pete!"  And  Spain  proceeds  through 
the  upheaval,  not  only  to  keep  a  close  seat  but  to  make 
his  legs  travel  free,  back  and  forth,  along  the  sides  of 
the  beast  beneath  him. 

"Lo'k'out  cowboy  when  he  comes  down,"  warningly 
yells  an  old  pal.  Now  Spain's  riding  Wardalopa. 
Something  is  wrong  with  the  saddle,  the  intrepid  John 
is  suddenly  unloaded  with  a  foot  hung  up  in  the  stirrup 
right  square  in  front  of  the  grandstand.  Everyone  is 
on  his  feet ;  laymen  gasp  with  wide  mouths,  women — 
some — emit   little   screams   of  terror  and  old  timers 

198 


THE  ROUND-UP 

show  a  stoical  grim  anxiety — it's  awful  to  see  a  man 
dragged  while  you   stand  by  helpless. 

Buck — kick — jerk — buck,  he  flings  his  flying  hoofs 
to  right  and  left  at  the  prostrate,  dragging  man.  Sud- 
denly the  inert  form  is  seen  to  twist  itself  with  a 
mighty  effort  out  of  the  stirrup  just  in  time  to  avoid — 
bang ! — a  crash  through  the  fence  into  the  arena.  The 
terrible  blow  splinters  the  boards,  the  rider  thrown 
violently  against  a  post  is  now  clear  of  the  horse  but 
lies  quite  still. 

The  horse  goes  on  his  bucking  way  toward  the  pad- 
dock. How  the  rider  was  freed  from  his  jeopardy  is  a 
trick  which  the  old  hands  know,  but  few  can  achieve. 
Long  boots,  one  of  which  you  can  still  see  dangling 
from  the  stirrup,  is  evidence — the  rider  had  cork- 
screwed out — of  his  footgear. 

But  to  the  amazement  of  the  crowd,  as  the  first 
aids  run  to  him,  he  suddenly  jumps  to  his  feet,  one  of 
which  is  now  four  inches  longer  than  the  other.  The 
dazed  man  makes  a  couple  of  half -reeling,  staggering 
turns  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  track  then  mutters : 

"Where  in  hell's  my  boot?"  The  grandstand  sits 
down  relieved. 

A  wild  yell  of  approval  goes  up  for  Long  Tom  when 
that  great  docile-looking  plough  horse  up  to  his  old 
tricks,  rids  itself  of  its  rider  in  just  three  terrific 
jumps.  Sometimes  Long  Tom  was  a  bit  lazy — for 
him — but  when  Tom  "broke  in  two"  he  threw  good 
men  as  well  as  others;  whenever  too  he  gave  that 
famous  twist  to  his  shoulders,  it  was  just  "peek-a- 
boo"  with  the  saddle.  Whistling  Annie  does  the  same 
trick  with  "Whiskey  Joe"  of  Arizona,  who  just 
loosens  up  his  knees  a  bit  and  the  boss  isn't  there. 
Crooked  River  proves  just  as  crooked  as  his  name  and 

199 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

soon  has  his  rider  "choking  the  horn"  which  is  the 
same  thing  as  "choking  the  biscuit"  or  pulHng  leather, 
that  is,  gripping  the  horn  of  the  saddle  or  touching  or 
bracing  on  any  part  of  the  saddle.  This  disqualifies  a 
rider  and  is  considered  more  of  a  disgrace  than  being 
thrown.  But  this  rider  was  thrown, — good  and  plenty, 
with  as  neat  a  high  dive  feet  soles  up  as  a  horse  could 
wish  to  see. 

"Sunnin'  yer  moccasins?"  yelled  an  unfeeling  spec- 
tator whose  slouch  hat  rim  had  been  chewed  into  by 
wood  rats. 

A  superb  figure  strides  majestically,  yet  modestly 
into  the  arena  from  the  direction  of  the  Indian  tepees. 
Every  eye  focuses  on  his  tall,  lithe,  well-proportioned 
body  moving  with  all  the  mien  and  beauty  of  a  Hia- 
watha. As  he  approached  the  judges  to  draw  from 
the  hat  for  the  finals,  this  Nez  Perce,  nephew  of  the 
great  Chief  Joseph,  who  had  fought  the  paleface, 
might  well  portray,  Chief  Massasoit,  and  the  som- 
breroed  president  and  judges,  Roger  Williams  and 
his  broad-hatted  Puritan  pioneers  with  whom  Mass- 
asoit made  the  first  peace  at  Plymouth.  But  it  was 
Jackson  Sundown,  the  Nez  Perce,  drawing  for  the 
finals.  Let  me  picture  his  ride  of  another  year,  for  it 
is  one  of  the  classics  of  the  Round-Up. 

Four  annual  Round-Ups  had  seen  Jackson  Sundown 
ride  into  the  semi-finals,  and  in  1915  he  had  ridden 
into  the  grand  finals  and  pulled  third  money.  Then  the 
Nez  Perce  went  back  to  his  ranch  in  Cul-de-sac,  Idaho, 
done  with  rough-riding  and  the  Round-Up,  for  his 
had  been  an  eventful  life  and  he  had  wintered  fifty 
snows. 

But  the  call  of  the  gathering  clans,  as  the  next  cycle 
200 


THE  ROUND-UP 

of  the  great  frontier  show  swung  round,  and  the  per- 
suasions of  A,  Phimister  Proctor,  the  sculptor,  who 
was  then  modehng  him  and  hving  nearby,  induced  him 
to  travel  again  with  his  family  and  pitch  his  tepee  by 
the  Umatilla. 

Many  remember  that  Saturday  afternoon  in  1916. 
Sundown  was  one  of  the  fourteen  riders  who  had  rid- 
den into  the  semi-finals.  He  had  qualified  by  riding  a 
hard  bucking  little  buckskin,  Casey  Jones.  In  the 
semi-finals  on  Saturday  he  rode  sunfishing,  twisting 
Wiggles  in  a  most  sensational  style,  and  by  doing  so 
also  rode  into  great  popularity  with  the  crowd.  It  was 
this  ride  that  finally  put  him  with  Rufus  Rollen  of 
Claremont,  Oklahoma,  and  Broncho  Bob  Hall  of  Po- 
catello,  Idaho,  to  compete  in  the  grand  finals  that  year 
for  the  championship  of  the  world. 

Three  wicked  outlaws,  were  saved  for  the  finals, 
Long  Tom,  Angel  and  Speed  Ball.  Rollen  drew  the 
redoubtable  old  Long  Tom,  and  Hall  the  lean  black 
plunger.  Speed  Ball,  that  has  been  in  many  a  final  con- 
test. To  Sundown's  lot  fell  Angel,  the  big  bay  on 
which  Lou  Minor  rode  into  the  championship  in  1912. 
Despite  Speed  Ball's  skyscraping,  long,  bounding  buck. 
Hall  was  master  of  him  from  the  start  and  never  for 
a  moment  was  off  balance,  although  he  hesitated  to 
attempt  to  scratch  him. 

When  Rollen,  acknowledged  as  one  of  the  best 
riders  in  the  country  and  fresh  from  wins  in  Kansas 
City  and  elsewhere,  mounted  to  the  back  of  old  Long 
Tom,  there  was  a  hush  over  the  stadium.  While  the 
crowd's  sympathies  were  with  Sundown,  they  knew 
that  if  Rollen  scratched  Long  Tom  and  rode  him  to 
a  finish  the  championship  would  undoubtedly  be  his. 
The  big  sorrel  brute  pounded  across  the  arena  with  ter- 

201 


ART  IN  THE  ROUGH 

Good  riders  on  bad  horses  give  the  greatest  exhibitions  ever 
witnessed.  Among  them  none  handled  themselves  in  better  form 
than  Art  Accord,  now  of  movie  fame,  even  in  the  clinch  of  danger 
beneath  a  struggling  horse,  which  has  deliberately,  in  fiercest  rage, 
thrown  himself,  in  order  to  crush  his  rider.  If  a  horse  breaks 
away  from  the  wranglers  with  the  blind  still  on  and  falls  in  con- 
sequence, the  rider  is  given  another  show — if  he  wants  it.  But 
a  horse  with  blind  off  which  falls  or  throws  himself  and  rider 
to  earth,  is  counted  fair  to  both  horse  and  man,  for  it  is  part  of 
the  horse's  game.  If  in  spite  of  this  the  man  still  stays  and  comes 
up  in  the  saddle  when  the  horse  regains  his  feet,  meantime  having 
observed  all  the  rules  as  to  not  pulling  leather  and  keeping  his 
feet  in  the  stirrups,  it  counts  for  the  man. 

In  this  unusual  picture.  Art  is  indeed  in  the  rough  but  still 
true  to  his  name  and  calling.  Note  the  remarkable  control  of  the 
rider's  hand,  still  firmly  on  the  rope  and  away  from  the  saddle 
horn,  foot  still  in  the  stirrup,  but  ready  to  disengage  should  the 
horse  decide  to  roll  over  on  him.  His  other  leg  is  undoubtedly 
snuggled  under  the  withers,  free  from  the  saddle,  yet  Art  is 
alert,  poised,  watching  every  movement  of  his  dangerous  adver- 
sary like  a  panther.  He  means  to  stay  with  him  if  there's  a  ghost 
of  a  chance — and  he  did. 


O 

(4 


o 


» 


LOOKING  FOR  A  SOFT  SPOT 

But  Not  For 

THE  GREATEST  RIDER  OF  THE  RED  RACE 

This  is  a  fine  example  of  showing  daylight  or  playing  "peek-a- 
boo"  with  the  saddle.  You  are  now  witnessing  the  "peek,"  the 
"boo"  follows  instantaneously.  The  rider  isn't  going — he's  gone 
already.  Even  if  this  rider  stayed  on,  such  unfriendly  coldness 
toward  the  saddle  would  disqualify  him. 

No  horse  of  the  Round-Up  string  of  buckers  ever  rode  into 
greater  fame  as  "an  honest  to  God"  bucker  than  the  redoubtable 
but  departed  old  Long  Tom.  He  was  first  known  hereabouts 
when  acquired  through  a  debt  by  Alfred  Smith  of  Pendleton  of 
the  J.  E.  Smith  Livestock  Co.  about  fourteen  years  ago,  having 
previously  passed  around  through  many  hands,  which  had  not 
helped  his  disposition.  For  two  years  the  old  outlaw  was  used 
part  time  as  one  of  seven  in  a  plough  team  in  which,  although  he 
worked  fairly  well,  he  was  always  flighty. 

One  day,  someone  to  save  time,  tried  to  ride  him,  but  he  lost 
a  second  or  two  and  then  decided  his  time  wasn't  worth  saving 
but  his  neck  was.  No  one  on  the  ranch  could  "stick."  This  con- 
vinced his  owner  that  he  was  bad  enough  to  be  good  enough  for 
the  Round-Up  so  they  brought  him  in  from  his  bunchgrass 
range  near  Pilot  Rock,  Til  Taylor  and  Sam  Thompson  looked 
him  over  and  he  was  bought  by  the  Round-Up. 

Champion  caliber  riders  have  essayed  to  ride  Long  Tom  but 
of  the  nine  who  mounted  his  back,  four  were  thrown  and  only 
one  of  the  five  who  stayed  dared  scratch  him. 

Of  all  riders  of  the  Amerindian  race,  none  have  ever  ridden 
into  such  popularity  at  the  Round-Up  as  Jackson  Sundown  the 
Nez  Perce,  of  Culdesac,  Idaho,  nephew  of  Chief  Joseph.  He  is 
the  only  Indian  who  ever  wrested  the  most  coveted  cowboy  and 
Indian  trophy — the  Round-Up  prize  bucking  contest  saddle  and 
money  for  the  championship  of  the  world. 

This  Sundown  did  in  1916,  making  a  most  sensational  ride 
on  Angel,  shown  in  this  picture.  Although  wings  would  never 
even  have  sprouted  on  Angel,  it  was  certainly  not  because  of  his 
cherubic  disposition,  he  really  never  needed  them  to  reach  heaven, 
as  can  be  seen  in  this  one  of  his  famous  sky-scraping  bucks. 

It  is  interesting  to  mention  in  connection  with  two  bucking 
champions  of  the  Red  and  Paleface  Races,  Caldwell  and  Sun- 
down, that,  the  great  outstanding  features  were  their  clear- 
headedness in  out-thinking  and  out-enduring  their  horses.  The 
secret  lay  primarily  in  the  unusual  care  each  took  of  his  health. 
Caldwell  weighed  in  at  155  pounds.  He  had  always  adhered  to 
early,  regular  hours,  avoided  over-indulgence  of  any  kind  and 
intelligently  considered  his  diet  and  long  runs  had  been  a  part  of 
his  training  program.  Sundown  weighed  in  at  about  the  same, 
was  married  and  happy,  had  never  touched  either  liquor  or  to- 
bacco and  made  his  championship  ride  at  fifty  years  of  age. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

rific  force,  and  the  figure  of  his  rider  survived  the  terri- 
ble punishment,  but  failed  to  scratch  the  canny,  hard- 
fighting,  old  outlaw. 

Angel  was  saddled. 

"Swing  to  'im,  Injun,"  called  the  bleachers. 

"Think  yer  can  stay  with  'im?" 

Then  in  true  Indian  style,  the  Nez  Perce  swung 
gracefully  into  his  saddle  from  the  right  side.  He 
watched  with  the  slight  suspicion  of  his  race  every 
movement  of  the  white  wranglers  for  fear  they  might 
be  "gypping"  him.  His  figure,  straight  as  an  arrow, 
leaned  forward  a  moment  and  old  Jackson  peeked 
over  his  saddle  horn  when  they  went  to  hook  in  his 
halter  rope,  to  make  sure  that  it  was  snapped  in  the 
lower  and  proper  ring  of  the  halter,  then  looked  at  Lee 
Caldwell,  who,  stepping  nearer,  sized  it  up  and  nodded. 
Old  Jackson  was  satisfied. 

"Scratch  'im  from  the  start.  Make  a  ride  in  the  first 
three  jumps,"  Lee  had  advised,  "and  then  clamp  down 
on  him  and  get  set  for  the  rest  of  your  ride." 

"Ugh!  me  ride  him  for  everything."  By  which  he 
meant  he  wanted  first  or  nothing. 

When  the  blindfold  was  pulled  off  the  big  bay  piv- 
otted  twice  and  then  seemed  nearly  to  reach  heaven  in 
a  series  of  high,  long  jumps  of  the  kind  which  have 
spelled  defeat  for  many  a  rider. 

Sundown  dug  his  spurs  into  Angel's  shoulders, 
stuck  them  into  his  flanks,  and  then  clamped  down  on 
the  third  jump  as  Caldwell  had  advised.  Once  set,  he 
then  goaded  him  to  his  worst.  It  was  a  supurb  figure, 
beautifully  proportioned,  narrow-waisted  and  riding 
like  a  centaur ;  his  hat,  bound  with  its  shimmering,  silk- 
en-colored kerchief,  swung  out  and  down  at  every  leap; 
poised  for  an  infinitesimal  fraction  of  a  second  seem- 

204 


THE  ROUND-UP 

ingly  in  midheaven.  It  was,  indeed,  a  sight  fit  for  the 
gods.  Long  braids  of  crow-black  hair  tied  in  front 
looped  and  waftetl  against  the  cinnamon  brown  cheeks 
of  the  rider;  his  colored  shirt  and  kerchief  flattening 
and  billowing  against  his  muscle-articulating  torso  in 
the  movements  of  the  wind;  his  long-haired  black- 
spotted,  orange  chapps  flapped  and  fluttered,  as  the 
horse  rose  and  fell,  while  the  wild-fighting  beast,  fol- 
lowing the  inner  side  of  the  fence,  bucked,  twisted, 
high-dived  and  did  his  best  to  break  in  two. 

On  he  went !  It  seemed  no  man  could  stand  the  pun- 
ishment, but  never  for  a  moment  did  those  long-haired 
chapps  pause  in  their  rowelling  from  withers  to  rump 
during  the  entire  fight  of  the  ride,  nor  did  the  big  som- 
brero cease  for  a  moment  to  fan  the  air.  Sundown  was 
indeed  riding  to  win  everything  or  lose  everything,  on 
his  last  throw  of  the  dice. 

"Stay  with  him,  Sundown!" 

"Ride 'im,  Injun!" 

But  Jackson  did  not  hear.    The  shot  rang  out. 

"Take  him  up!" 

Herb  Thompson  rode  alongside  and  helped  Sun- 
down dismount  from  one  of  the  two  most  thrilling 
rides  ever  recorded.  The  crowd  was  cheering  itself 
into  a  frenzy.  One  name  was  borne  out  from  ten 
thousands  of  throats.  "Sundown!  Sundown!"  came 
from  the  grandstand:  "Sundown!"  echoed  the  bleach- 
ers; "Sundown!"  re-echoed  the  mounted  contingent 
and  the  Indians. 

"Ugh!" 

It  was  the  epic  ride  for  his  race  which  this  son  of 
Chief  Joseph  made  in  his  fiftieth  year.  It  was  indeed 
the  grand  championship  in  the  grand  final  not  only  of 
the  Round-Up,  but  probably  of  the  history  of  his  race. 

205 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Jackson  Sundown,  the  Nez  Perce,  was  a  fitting  repre- 
sentative as  the  first  and  only  red  man  to  wrest  this 
title  from  the  Paleface. 

"What  inscription  do  you  want  on  the  silver  plate, 
Sundown?"  was  asked  him  at  the  saddlery  store  as  they 
viewed  the  beautiful,  coveted  prize-saddle. 

"You  put  wife's  name,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

The  entire  throng  lets  loose  when  the  three  outlaws, 
Light-foot,  No  Name  and  big-boned  Long  Tom  are 
led  into  the  arena.  There  is  no  question  about  deci- 
sion as  to  the  champion  calibre  of  the  horses.  C.  C. 
Couch,  Bob  Cavin  and  A.  E.  McCormack  are  picked. 
Couch  draws  first  and  secures  the  sorrel.  No  Name. 

Watch  that  little  dynamo !  His  satanic  majesty  re- 
fuses to  be  saddled  and  strikes,  kicks,  and  bites  at  the 
wranglers  with  all  the  ferocity  of  a  wild  beast.  If  the 
wranglers  never  had  their  hands  full  before,  they  have 
now.  His  vicious  fore-striking  is  so  intelligent  it  has 
them  buffaloed  and  they  reach  very  gingerly  toward 
his  head  to  slip  in  the  blind,  but  his  foot  reach  is  longer 
than  their  lanky  arms. 

"Or  man  'im!"  advises  the  bleachers,  and  "old  man 
him"  they  do,  which  consists  in  throwing  a  looped  rope 
over  neck  or  back,  moving  him  over  and  passing  the 
free  end  of  the  rope  through  the  loop  and  thus  roping 
him  anywhere  one  sees  fit,  for  greater  control  or  se- 
curity.    Still  their  efforts  to  saddle  him  are  futile. 

"Can't  yer  teach  a  tame  hoss?"  comes  from  the 
bleachers. 

A  wrangler  makes  a  sudden  spring  and  throws  both 
arms  around  his  neck  well  under  the  jaw,  and  with  the 
assistance  of  the  others.  No  Name  is  thrown,  the 
wrangler  still  maintaining  his  hold. 

206 


THE  ROUND-UP 

"Mercy!  Why,  what  on  earth  is  that  man  doing?" 

"Chawing  his  ear,  mum,"  rephes  a  big  sombreroed 
man  to  the  lady  visiting  from  Chicago. 

Couch  mounts  cautiously,  feeling  his  way  into  the 
saddle.  No  Name  concaves  his  back  and  crouches  close 
to  the  ground  like  a  cat,  then  shoots  from  the  wran- 
glers like  a  bombshell,  kicks,  rears,  and  plunges  in  the 
vain  effort  to  loose  those  clinging  legs  from  his  sides, 
finally  displaying  his  temper  in  vain  attempts  to  reach 
them  with  his  teeth. 

"That's  sailin'  high!" 

"Another  live  'un!"  bellows  the  crowd. 

Couch  plays  his  game  well  and  makes  a  wonderful 
ride;  likewise  does  Cavin,  who  is  up  second  and  has 
drawn  Light  foot.  See  that  wicked,  little  sunfisher 
hunch,  dive  and  twist  his  best,  but  the  Idaho  boy  does 
not  even  show  daylight!  There  is  little  to  choose  be- 
tween the  two  rides.  They  have  been  executed  in  the 
same  spirit  of  game  sportsmanship  as  Corporal  Roy 
Hunter's  bout  with  a  Texas  longhorn,  that  thrilled  the 
entire  throng  and  made  him  perhaps  the  chief  hero  of 
that  Round-Up. 

"My  I  shouldn't  think  they'd  let  that  lame  man  in 
the  arena,"  remarks  our  same  friend  from  the  Windy 
City,  as  a  bandaged-up  cowboy  hobbles  his  crutchety 
way  across  the  open. 

"Why, that's  my  pal, Bob  Hall, mum! — Broncho  Bob 
Hall,"  interpolates  her  broad-brimmed  bureau  of  in- 
formation. 

"Well,  but  why  do  they  let  him?  He  may  get 
hurt." 

"Hurt!  He's  already  hurt,  but  he's  goin'  ter  see  if 
he  can't  git  hurt  s'morc — See,  he's  going  up.  If  it 
was  any  other  feller  he'd  be  lookin'  for  a  soft  spot,  but 

207 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

I'm  a  figurin'  Bob's  as  like  as  not  ter  ride  'im."    And 
sure  enough,  he  does. 

Look !  They  are  going  to  draw  for  horses  for  the 
grand  finals  as  this  occurs  on  the  grounds  in  the  pres- 
ence of  everyone.  It's  Lee  Caldwell,  Yakima  Canutt 
and  Jackson  Sundown.  These  three  have  ridden 
through  with  the  other  twelve  or  thirteen  selected  for 
the  semi-finals  and  now  have  fought  their  way  through 
these  into  the  grand  finals.  See !  the  cowboy  drawing 
now  is  Canutt,  that  tall  and  lanky  buckaroo  with  a 
ranginess  characteristic  of  the  clan;  there  goes  Sun- 
down, the  agile,  erect  figure  you  know  so  well,  the  third 
is  Caldwell,  the  shortest  and  youngest  of  the  three. 
What  a  superbly  proportioned  body,  splendid 
shoulders,  lithe  and  beautifully  muscled  and  the  very 
embodiment  of  health,  on  whom  attention  is  now  main- 
ly focused.  The  women  say  he's  good-looking  and 
even  the  men  admit  it. 

Last  year  he  rode  in  second  for  the  world's  cham- 
pionship here,  so  close  to  Red  Parker,  the  champion, 
that  there  was  a  division  of  opinion;  but  the  judges 
decided  it.  Furthermore  some  member  of  the  Round- 
Up  committee  expressed  the  Pendleton  spirit  and  the 
clean  sport  of  the  show  when  he  remarked  "Lee,  if  you 
ever  ride  into  the  world's  championship  at  the  Round- 
Up  you  will  have  to  win  hands  down,  because  you're 
a  Pendleton  boy." 

Lee  had  just  come  down  from  Moosejaw,  where  his 
winning  of  the  All  Canada  championship  had  been 
heralded  before  him ;  but  he  had  come  to  the  greatest 
of  all  shows  where  more  men  ride  and  are  eliminated 
in  the  elimination  contest  than  even  enter  the  other 

great  shows. 

208 


THE  ROUND-UP 

Each  in  turn,  one  at  a  time,  tlirusts  his  hand  into  the 
sombrero  held  by  one  of  the  judges  and  draws  forth 
a  tightly-wadded,  round,  paper  pellet.  Each  opens 
them  and  now  reads  his  fate. 

Sundown  draws  Cul-de-Sac  and  makes  a  splendid 
ride.  Canutt  draws  Speed  Ball  and  rides  equally  well. 
Although  a  little  cautious  in  the  way  he  scratches  this 
sunfishing  devil-incarnate,  he  seems  sure  of  second 
money.  Two  Step  from  Cheyenne  is  the  horse  Cald- 
well draws. 

In  the  wildhorse  race  yesterday  you  recall  Caldwell's 
right  forearm  was  broken.  When  they  set  it  in  the 
plaster  cast  last  night  the  doctor  left  a  little  aperture 
in  the  bandage  to  facilitate  a  shot  with  a  hypodermic 
to  dull  the  pain — for  he  was  to  ride  in  the  semi-finals. 
The  doctor  is  on  hand  all  right  to  shoot  it  to  him  now, 
while  they  are  wrangling  Two  Step ;  Allen  Drumheller 
there,  Lee's  pal  and  saddler — has  taken  hypodermics 
on  such  occasions  himself,  you  can  see  he  is  advising 
against  it. 

Although  a  buckaroo  often  saddles  his  own  horse  in 
a  contest,  it  is  an  unwritten  law  that  a  rider  may  ask 
any  man  he  desires,  to  saddle  for  him — pick  him  out 
of  the  grandstand  if  he  wants  to.  Sometimes  a  good 
saddler  is  asked  by  half  a  dozen  riders  to  saddle  for 
them. 

He's  up  and  away !  a  perfect  ride  although  Two  Step 
the  tricky  devil  with  his  apparently  easy  straight-away, 
really  puts  in  to  it  everything  that  he  thinks  of  and  you 
don't.  The  expression  of  the  rider's  face  shows  that 
the  pain  in  the  bandaged  arm  is  terrific,  but  watch! 
Instead  of  fainting  it  makes  him  so  "dad-burned  mad," 
that  he  makes  a  hair-raising  ride,  the  only  qualified  one 
on  the  bucker  that  season.  Lee  dismounts,  walks  toward 

"  209 


LET   'ER  BUCK! 

Did  Bill  Mahaflfey 
ride  Iz?     He  sure 
did,  scratching  him, 
fanning  him,  and  rid- 
ing "slick"  with  a 
close  seat  and  splen- 
did  form.     It  is 
Let  'er  Buck !  with 
both  horse  and  man. 
Enough  said. 


% 


W.  S.  Bowman 


Let  'Er  Buck 


©  vv.  S.  Bowman  One  of  the  Greatest  Rides  Ever  Made 


STAY  A  LONG  TIME  COWBOY 

You're  Against 

ONE  OF  THE  GREATEST  RIDES  EVER  MADE 

Long  Tom  has  always  been  used  as  a  grand  final  horse.  In  this 
picture  of  Ira  de  Mille  making  a  splendid  ride  Old  Tom  is  seen 
up  to  his  old  trick  of  his  long  head  reach,  to  jerk  the  halter  rope 
slack  through  the  rider's  hand  or  throw  him  against  the  saddle 
horn.  Of  those  grand  final  champions  who  have  ridden  this 
splendid  outlaw  he  could  buck  hard  enough  for  any  except  Cald- 
well. No  one  but  that  rider  felt  the  necessity  of  scratching  him. 
One  buckaroo  admitted  he  contemplated  it,  remarking,  "I  just 
loosened  up  my  knees  a  bit  and  Long  Tom  wasn't  there." 

What  is  generally  conceded  as  the  greatest  ride  ever  made  at 
the  Round-Up  was  in  1915,  when  Lee  Caldwell  rode  in  as  king 
of  buckaroo  riders  and  vanquished  Long  Tom,  king  of  outlaw 
buckers.  He  rode  him  to  a  finish  and  as  the  boys  say  "sure  did 
kick  out  hair."  This  picture  shows  the  rider  with  his  broken 
forearm  fanning  and  was  taken  about  the  end  of  the  first  clean 
away  buck,  just  before  the  rider's  breast  bone  was  broken  against 
the  saddle  horn  through  too  short  a  hold  on  rope.  This  wtas  the 
result  of  the  accident  with  the  snubbing  rope. 

Caldwell's  marvelous  record  can  be  appreciated  in  part  by  the 
fact,  that  in  one  season's  riding  he  entered  nine  of  the  biggest 
contests  in  the  United  States  and  rode  into  seven  first  champion- 
ships, one  second,  and  lost  out  in  the  third,  because  his  first  horse 
did  not  buck,  winding  up  his  season  with  seven  prize  saddles  and 
$6,000  prize  money,  clear  of  all  his  expenses. 

It  was  Caldwell's  grit,  brains,  saddlebornness,  horse  knowledge, 
and  his  remarkable  ability  to  coordinate  these  to  the  out-thinking 
of  the  wildest  outlaw  horse,  that  as  far  as  is  recorded  enabled 
him  to  ride  into  more  world's  championships  in  premier  con- 
tests in  a  given  time  than  any  man  living.  Add  to  these  qualities, 
a  pleasing  personality,  and  we  have  the  reasons  of  his  popularity 
with  both  spectators  and  buckaroos.  But  it  is  that  last  tribunal 
of  judgment  "the  boys"  themselves  which  has  placed  Caldwell  as 
the  top-notcher  of  their  clan  in  the  bucking  game  and  that  means 
the  greatest  living  rider  the  world  knows  today. 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

the  line  of  saddles.  His  left  hand  steals  to  nurse  his 
right  which  is  hurting  so  bad  Lee  a  second  time  re- 
fuses hypodermic,  remarking,  "Lm  too  mad  to  take  it 
— I  want  to  be  a  little  mad — a  man  always  rides  better." 

"L-e-e  C-ad-d-w-e-1-1  r-i-d-e-s  L-o-n-g  T-o-m," 
clearly  enunciated  Fred  McMonies  through  the  great 
megaphone  announcer  from  his  crow's  nest  on  the  pole 
top. 

A  great  roar  of  satisfaction  goes  up  from  the  bleach- 
er and  grandstand.  They  are  the  five  magic  words 
which  the  crowd  wants  more  than  anything  else  to 
hear.  They  have  always  wanted  him  to  draw  Long 
Tom  in  the  grand  final  to  see  if  he  dares  scratch  him. 

It  is  barely  five  minutes  since  Two  Step  was  taken 
up,  and  now  Caldwell  is  ordered  to  tackle  Long  Tom. 
He  walks  to  where  big  Bill  Ridings  and  the  other 
wranglers  are  cautiously  tucking  the  blind  under  the 
halter  leathers  of  the  big  brute  holding  him  snubbed. 
The  snubbing  rope,  see,  is  run  through  the  fork  of  the 
snubbing  horse's  saddle;  then  it  passes  through  the 
halter  of  the  outlaw  beneath  his  jaw,  and  now  the  end  is 
brought  back  and  made  fast  with  a  couple  of  half 
hitches  around  the  saddle  horn  of  the  snubbing  horse. 
Caldwell  pauses,  and,  as  is  his  custom,  sizes  up  his 
worthy  antagonist.  He  has  that  remarkable  ability  of 
sizing  up  a  horse  just  by  looking  at  him,  and  knowing 
within  two  or  three  inches  how  much  he  will  have  to 
let  out  or  take  in  his  cinch  before  he  saddles  on.  But 
for  the  first  time  he  is  absolutely  deceived.  Allen 
Drumheller  has  the  saddle  on,  but  Caldwell  finds  the 
end  of  the  cinch  comes  only  to  the  middle  of  his  belly, 
and  they  have  to  "off  saddle"  again.  Caldwell  com- 
ments to  Drumheller  that  old  Tom  has  the  greatest 
lung  capacity  of  any  horse  he  has  ever  ridden. 

212 


THE  ROUND-UP 

Caldwell  knows  he  is  up  against  it  and  watches  every 
movement  like  a  cat.  He  impatiently  motions,  says 
something,  and  the  wranglers  turn  Long  Tom's  head 
a  bit  more  to  the  southwest  toward  the  grandstand. 
It  is  "direction,"  Caldwell  is  thinking,  that  which  will 
head  him  just  between  the  judges.  He  believes  he  can 
"scratch  hell"  out  of  Long  Tom.  He  wants  no  doubt 
in  the  judges'  mind,  as  to  what  he  is  doing.  There  is  a 
bit  of  a  struggle,  then  Lee  snaps  out  a  curt  order.  He 
does  not  want  the  horse  frightened.  There  is  a  differ- 
ence between  frightening  a  horse  and  getting  him  mad ; 
frightening  him  has  a  tendency  to  make  him  blunder 
in  his  own  movements,  because,  as  Lee  said  once  "A 
horse  like  Long  Tom  does  a  lot  of  thinking." 

Everyone  knows  Caldwell  is  tremendously  high 
strung,  trained  so  to  the  minute  that  a  mere  nothing 
can  set  him  off  the  handle;  but  Allen  Drumheller 
knows  his  man,  knows  Lee's  every  idea,  so  he  makes 
every  movement  count.  Everything  is  timed  to  a 
nicety  when  he  tightens  the  cinch  and  fastens  the  latigo, 
for  Allen  knows  how  to  handle  a  man  as  well  as  a 
horse.  He  passes  the  halter  rope  to  Caldwell,  who 
turns  his  stirrup  out  gently  with  his  left  hand,  then, 
inserting  his  foot,  seizes  the  horn  with  the  same  hand 
and  swings  lightly  into  his  saddle.  Even  though  one- 
handed,  he  avoids  any  pull  on  the  saddle  when  leaving 
the  ground,  for,  in  mounting  bucking  horses  it  is  this 
jerk  that  often  causes  them  to  lunge  or  start. 

"He's  going  up  1"  says  a  man. 

"Ain't  he  sweet?"  chimes  in  a  woman. 

The  great  audience  rose  as  one  man.  Lee  settles 
himself  in  his  saddle  as  nonchalantly  as  though  he  might 
be  testing  his  stirrup's  length  instead  of  being  turned 
loose  to  vie  for  the  world's  championship  on  the  tough- 

213 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

est  brute  Oregon  can  secure.  Lee  knows  he  is  mount- 
ing one  of  the  best  horses  in  the  world  when 
Drumheller  hands  him  the  haher  rope.  See  how 
carefully  he  takes  a  last  look  over  everything  and  then 
deliberately  at  the  judges.  The  judges  nod.  The 
rider  wants  at  least  two  of  the  judges  to  see  everything 
he  does,  readjusts  himself  in  the  saddle  and  his  rein  in 
his  left  hand,  snuggles  his  feet  right  up  to  his  heels 
in  the  stirrup — for  a  single  foot  out  disqualifies  the 
rider. 

"Turn  him  round,"  he  snaps  to  the  wranglers 

The  rider  knows  that  though  the  old  outlaw  is  stand- 
ing apparently  square,  he  is  really  "tense  up"  to  "throw 
back."  Turning  him  changes  this  position  or  "un- 
tracks"  him.    The  blind  is  off.     He  is  loose. 

The  wranglers  spring  to  one  side,  one  of  them  jerks 
ofif  the  blind  and  frees  the  end  of  the  snubbing  rope. 
The  great  brute  springs  into  the  air  and  the  rider's 
legs  shoot  forward  to  scratch  towards  his  neck. 

"Let  'er  buck !"  comes  from  all  sides,  at  this  first 
jump.  But  the  initiated  know  something  is  wrong. 
There  is  an  unnatural  throw  to  Long  Tom's  head 
towards  the  wranglers  on  his  left — the  free  end  of  the 
snubbing  rope  has  traveled  too  fast  through  Tom's 
halter  and  has  whipped  into  a  knot  around  its  own 
bight  and  caught,  causing  this  violent,  unnatural  jerk 
leftward.  Caldwell's  halter  rope  is  on  the  right  of  the 
horse's  neck.  The  sudden  jerk  of  his  head  to  the  left 
will  force  him  to  either  give  way,  be  pulled  forward, 
or  let  the  line  slip  through  his  hand.  This  will  cause 
a  change  of  rein,  and  when  the  horse  recovers  will 
make  so  much  slack  he  will  have  nothing  to  steady  him- 
self with,  and  his  ride  will  be  hopeless  on  a  horse  like 

Long  Tom. 

214 


THE  ROUND-UP 

Caldwell  is  jerked  violently  forward,  and  to  prevent 
being  unbalanced,  is  allowing  the  rope  to  slide  through 
his  hand.  See  it  go — a  full  foot  and  a  half.  Wrench ! 
Good,  the  snubbing  rope  is  free.  He  is  readjusting  his 
hold  by  taking  up  the  slack  with  the  weakened  grip  of 
two  fingers  of  his  broken  arm.  The  sudden  release 
from  the  snubbing  rope  makes  old  Tom  throw  his  nose 
skyward  more  than  usual — an  old  trick  of  this  bucker 
— and  gives  Lee  more  slack  than  he  wants,  which  when 
now  taken  up  gives  him  too  short  a  hold. 

All  this  occurs  while  the  horse's  forequarters  are  in 
the  air,  and  during  this  first  jump  Caldwell  has  not 
only  adjusted  the  rope,  but  has  pulled  ofif  his  hat  with 
which  he  now  fans  him,  gripping  it  with  the  two  fing- 
ers of  his  broken  right  forearm. 

"Look  out  cowboy  when  he  comes  down,"  yells  an 
old  buckaroo  beside  you. 

With  hindquarters  snapped  up,  old  Tom  now  puts 
his  head  earthward,  at  the  same  time  giving  one  of 
his  peculiarly  violent  kicks,  his  eyes  show  white,  down 
he  comes  ker-plunk.  Caldwell  already  pulled  and  held 
forward  to  the  front  part  of  the  saddle,  is  now  thrown 
violently  against  the  saddle  horn.  Crack!  goes  the 
boy's  breast  bone,  and  breaks  three  inches  above  the 
point,  knocking  the  wind  clear  out  of  him. 

"Will  he  stay  with  'im?"  His  breath  is  gone — his 
head  swims — stars  shoot — everything  cants  in  a  swirl 

of  blue For  a  fraction  of  a  moment  he  seems 

to  be  gone.  H  you  know  Caldwell  you  know  if  he  is 
going  to  fall,  he'll  reason  he  cannot  strike  any  harder 
by  scratching  old  Tom,  besides  he  knows  he  will  be 
making  a  real  ride  when  he  hits  the  dirt.  See !  he's 
letting  'er  buck  now  for  all  there  is  in  it  I 

"Stay  with  'im,  Lee !"  came  the  old  cry,  as  Long 
215 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Tom  broke  like  a  boomerang  into  that  terrific  pound- 
ing, bounding  buck,  which,  if  it  does  not  unseat  most 
riders  in  the  first  three  jumps,  shakes  their  dayHghts 
so  that  they  welcome  hitting  the  ground,  it  is  so  much 
softer. 

Whang!  in  the  back  with  the  cantle  of  the  saddle. 
In  Long  Tom's  bucking  nearly  a  dozen  men  have  left 
old  Tom's  saddle  unconscious  on  this  account  and 
never  knew  why  they  left  it.  The  big,  hill-climbing 
demon  snorts,  even  groans  with  rage  in  the  effort  to 
shake  the  clinging  man  thing  from  his  back. 

Caldwell  lets  another  foot  of  rope  slide  through  his 
hand  on  the  next  jump. 

"Ride  'im  cowboy!"  yell  the  buckaroos. 

The  rider  heels  withers  and  toes  rump  with  his 
spurs. 

"That's  raking  him !" 

His  spurs  are  dull,  but  a  year  from  now  I  reckon 
there'll  be  scars  eight  inches  long  on  old  Tom's  hide. 
See,  at  every  jump  the  old  outlaw  deliberately  jerks 
his  head  and  takes  more  rope,  a  few  inches  at  a  time. 
If  the  rider's  arm  was  straight  out  and  the  rope  tight, 
there  would  be  no  use  of  any  man's  trying  to  hold  it. 

Three! — four! — five! — fifteen  tremendous,  vicious, 
man-killing  jumps  you  count,  spiced  with  every  art  of 
the  old  bucker's  repertoire.  Look,  he's  circling  toward 
the  corrals,  still  inside  the  fence. 

Caldwell's  breath  is  coming  back  a  little,  things  have 
ceased  swimming.  You  know  he  is  badly  handicapped 
through  the  blow  on  his  chest  and  a  rope  too  slack 
to  balance  himself  with.  But  his  determination  to 
make  the  greatest  ride  of  his  life  is  as  evident  as  is 
the  determination  of  the  brute  beneath  him  that  he 
shall  not 

216 


THE  ROUND-UP 

It  is  the  slack  now  that  bothers.  He  realizes  after 
the  horse  was  freed  and  after  the  first  buck,  that  if  he 
took  it  up  with  the  other  hand  he  would  be  disquali- 
fied.    But  he  is  a  heady  rider. 

Quick  as  thought  on  the  uprise  of  a  buck,  he  takes 
the  "fuzz"  of  rope  (the  frayed  end)  in  his  teeth — 
which  many  have  seen  him  do  in  exhibition  rides  when 
he  held  both  hands  up  to  make  a  hit.  There  is  no  rule 
against  this.  He  now  slides  his  hand  down  and  is  set 
for  a  new  fight  as  he  approaches  the  fence.  He  knows 
by  the  animal's  actions  whether  he  will  go  over  it  or 
crash  through. 

"Wow!  Wow!  Wow!  Stay  a  long  time,  cowboy !" 
yells  the  mounted  contingent,  lined  behind  the  outer 
fencing  in  the  gap  between  the  bleachers.  Springing 
skyward,  Long  Tom  clears  the  fence  with  a  pretty 
jump.  Caldwell  is  sitting  "straight  up"  in  a  way  no 
man  has  ever  sat  Long  Tom  before.  He  knows  he  has 
him  now.  It  gives  him  a  chance  for  a  flowery  show, 
see  he's  throwing  a  lot  of  bouquets. 

"Scratch  'im,  Pete,"  yells  a  mounted  buckaroo  with 
a  grin,  as  the  big  sorrel  weaves  and  bounds  his  rocky 
way  by  the  horsemen. 

Caldwell  now  makes  the  fur  fly  in  a  way  that  is  un- 
believable. Every  previous  rider  has  stopped  at  raking 
the  famous  outlaw  with  spurs.  It  has  been  generally 
admitted  that  the  man  did  not  live  who  could  do  that 
and  still  sit  on  his  back. 

Caldwell  now  confines  his  rowels  to  the  great  hump- 
ing shoulders  to  make  him  flinch — circle — before  the 
ki-hooting  hellian,  who  now  seems  to  have  gone  plumb 
cultus,  smashes  and  tears  him  to  pieces  against  the 
posts  and  wire  of  the  high  outer  fence  of  the  track. 

He  does  it  barely  in  time;    down  the  track  by  the 
217 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

yelling,  yipping  mounted  cowboys ;  along  by  the  whoop- 
ing Indian  bucks,  shrill  ki-yi-ing  women  and  scream- 
ing papooses;  on  around  the  track  flies  the  outlaw, 
semi-circling  the  entire  eastern  end,  bounds  and  bucks 
his  way,  pounding  the  earth  in  a  manner  that  must 
rattle  loose  the  teeth  and  bones  of  the  lithe,  boyish 
figure  of  Caldwell,  who  still  miraculously  riding  true 
to  form,  through 

"Flip,  flop,  dive  or  hunch, 
Just  sticks  him  like  a  burr." 

See  there! — Half  way  round  to  the  grandstand 
something  has  happened  which  never  happened  before. 
The  hitherto  undaunted  king  of  buckers  is  breaking 
into  a  run — surrenders — he's  been  ridden  out.  But 
even  running  Long  Tom  is  hard  to  ride,  and  every  step 
by  this  time  is  a  buck  to  Caldwell  weak  as  he  is. 

"You've  got  'im,  Lee,"  came  from  bleacher  and 
grandstand. 

Bang!  went  the  judge's  pistol.     "Take  him  up!" 

Herb  Thompson  rides  alongside,  Lee  hands  him  his 
rope  as  is  his  custom  and  a  great  help  to  the  herder. 
Pandemonium  breaks  loose  as  Thompson,  himself  a 
superb  rider,  snubs  up  the  first-time-defeated  outlaw 
monarch  and  swerves  him  around.  Caldwell  musters  his 
remaining  strength  and  springs  off  to  one  side,  landing 
twelve  or  fifteen  feet  away,  as  is  his  unique  habit  in 
dismounting  from  bad  horses.  He  figures  he  has  won 
and  would  rather  take  a  chance  with  a  sprained  ankle 
than  a  kick.  In  the  midst  of  the  terrific  uproar  of 
cowboy  yells,  shouts  of  his  name  and  cheers  mingle, 
he  walks  a  bit  unsteadily  until  he  reaches  the  fence 

then  leans  against  it. 

218 


THE  ROUND-UP 

But  the  end  is  not  yet.  Canutt  and  Caldwell  have 
been  scheduled  to  ride  Spitfire  and  P.  J.  Nut.  No  one 
believed  any  man  could  scratch  Long  Tom  and  stay 
on — besides  the  program  must  be  carried  through. 
Spitfire,  a  vicious  little  mare,  is  already  over  there  in 
the  arena.  The  wranglers  brought  her  in  before  the 
saddle  was  scarce  pulled  from  the  vanquished  Long 
Tom.  Lee  is  still  resting  against  the  fence,  but  he  is 
already  ordered  to  ride  again. 

Short  as  the  respite  is,  it  is  here  in  the  final  test 
that  his  marvelous  reserve  strength,  the  conservation 
of  his  splendid  health  due  to  his  intelligent  training, 
tells.  His  recuperative  reaction  is  immediate,  and 
although  Spitfire  puts  in  an  unusually,  fast,  tricky 
ride,  in  comparison  to  Long  Tom,  she  undoubtedly 
felt  like  a  feather  bed.  Just  the  same,  Lee  feels  about 
ready  to  go  home  when  he  dismounts. 

Again  the  unexpected  happens.  Canutt  knows  he 
has  second  money  won.  The  ride  on  Long  Tom  can- 
not be  excelled.  Preferring  to  keep  what  he  has  got, 
which  is  his  privilege,  he  withdraws  his  ride. 

"Then  it's  up  to  you,  Lee.  Ride  him!"  you  hear  the 
judges  say. 

This  is  too  much  for  Drumheller,  who  has  been 
watching  over  his  pal,  like  a  cat  with  one  kitten,  and 
his  objections  are  energetic  if  not  poetic.  Lee  pauses 
a  moment,  a  bit  white.    Then  his  dark  eyes  snap. 

"Yes,  I'll  ride  'im ;  and  then  you  can  bring  out  your 
whole  damn  bunch  and  I'll  ride  'em  all." 

And  ride  'im  he  does — that  chunky,  powerful,  con- 
centrated extract  of  horse  meat,  P.  J.  Nut,  which  if 
you  scratched  a  match  in  his  ear  he'd  set  the  prairie  on 
fire.  He  fans  him — he  scrapes  him — and  another 
astonishing  ride  is  credited  to  the  greatest  living  rider 

219 


HELL  BENT 1 

This  picture  of  hell  bent  and  back  again  hardly  describes  this 
picture  or  the  sensations  its  rider  must  have  felt  when  this  hell- 
diving  demon  "broke  in  two."  The  rider  is  Lee  Caldwell  of  Pen- 
dleton, the  bucker  is  Flying  Devil.  The  ride  was  made  at  Miles 
City,  Montana,  which  brought  this  peer  of  bucking  riders  the 
Montana  State  Bucking  Championship.  The  picture  was  taken  by 
Marcell  and  is  a  remarkable  bucking  picture,  for  it  is  seldom  one 
catches  real  action  on  a  real  tough  horse. 

"Lee,"  I  said  one  night  when  he  dropped  in  to  see  me,  from 
his  ranch  hidden  away  back  up  the  Canyon.  "How  about  Flying 
Devil,  was  he  as  bad  as  he  looks?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you — I  consider  him  the  hardest  horse  I  ever 
rode.  You  see,  it  isn't  the  horse  that  sunfishes  or  twists  that 
makes  it  hardest  for  one  to  ride,  it's  the  punishment  he  gives  the 
rider.  Flying  Devil  was  an  outlaw  and  came  from  a  mountain 
range  either  in  Montana  or  Idaho  and  I  consider  mountain-bred 
horses  the  strongest.  Until  Flying  Devil  was  broken  down  in  his 
knees  there  was  practically  no  direction.  You  know,  a  bucking 
horse's  muscles  will  indicate  his  action — if  he's  going  to  sunfish 
to  the  right  for  instance,  his  muscles  contract  accordingly  and 
give  you  the  cue,  but  he  didn't,  he  was  all  pure  strength  and 
speed — every  move  he  made  was  just  so  sudden,  there  was  no 
spring,  no  cue.  You  see,"  and  a  retrospective  smile  passed  over 
his  face  as  he  pointed  to  the  extreme  southwest  corner  of  the 
picture,  "this  is  where  he  was  when  he  started  this  buck,  but  fac- 
ing the  other  way — you  see  where  he  is  and  how  he's  facing  now. 
He's  the  only  horse  I  ever  rode  that  could  apparently  jump 
straight  backward  as  far  as  he  could  forwards." 


'-^^^^^^'^ 


©  Marceli 


Hell  Bent! 


THE  ROUND-UP 

of  today.  But  half  through  the  ride  Lee's  tactics 
change.  The  grandstand  doesn't  notice  it  much,  the 
old  buckaroos  do.  Only  Lee  knows  why  he  changed 
his  tactics.  "I  realized,"  he  tells  Drumheller  after  dis- 
mounting, "that  having  to  ride  another  horse  with  the 
hurt  in  my  arm  getting  me  so  loco  mad  I  was  likely 
to  be  uncautious — so  I  clamped  down  a  bit."  But  he 
rides  into  as  pretty  a  finish  as  has  ever  been  made. 

The  deafening  uproar  is  only  exceeded  by  a  greater 
one.  Wave  after  wave  undulates  around  the  great 
oval  as  though  to  shake  the  very  structure  from  its 
foundations.  The  whole  colossal  saucer  goes  wild  and 
even  the  grandstand  jumps  up  on  the  seats  and  throws 
things  at  one  another. 

Caldwell  has  won  the  rough-riding  championship 
of  the  world  hands  down,  as  the  committee  has  re- 
quired. He  has  ridden  everything  in  sight,  including 
four  of  the  worst  outlaws  that  could  be  gathered  to- 
gether— one  immediately  after  another — within  the 
space  of  forty-five  minutes — and  has  scratched  them 
all.  But  more  inconceivable  yet,  he  has  done  what  no 
man  has  ever  done  before — he  has  scratched  that 
king  of  buckaroos,  Long  Tom,  from  start  to  finish, 
from  wither  to  rump  and — "ridden  him" — with  broken 
bones  in  arm  and  chest  thrown  in. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Lee?" 

But  Lee  was  looking  toward  the  outlaw  corral : 

"Gad!'  he  ejaculates,  "how  he  did  come  to  pieces!" 

THE  CRASHING  CLIMAX 

The  end  of  those  wonderful  three  days  of  thrills 
and  spills  comes  with  the  great  finale — the  wild-horse 
race. 

221 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

Over  against  the  dull  glow  of  the  West  from  where 
the  half  dust  storm  is  now  sweeping  across  Central 
Oregon,  filling  the  air  with  that  peculiar  mellow  haze, 
a  denser  cloud  suddenly  sweeps  from  the  corrals  as 
twenty  wild  horses,  never  before  saddled,  sweep  like 
a  tornado  around  the  track. 

From  in  front  of  the  grandstand,  twenty  bronzed 
cowboys  leave  as  many  helpers  each  at  his  assigned 
place,  and  sweep  like  a  second  tornado  around  to  meet 
this  stampeding  herd  of  unbroken  "bunch  grassers." 
There  is  a  clash.  Some  collide,  a  few  go  down.  In 
this  fighting,  plunging,  rearing,  kicking  chaos  some 
rope  their  horses  and  eventually  work  them  over  to 
their  stations  in  front  of  the  grandstand.  Others  dash 
about  the  arena  in  mad  pursuit.  Off  to  the  left  is  a 
roped  horse  on  one  side  of  the  fence,  the  roper  on 
the  other;  directly  below  you  a  dozen  fight  to  wrangle 
and  saddle  the  horses  already  caught — and  all  are 
caught  eventually. 

There  in  that  outfit,  the  saddling  is  all  but  accom- 
plished. A  rope  breaks  and  regardless  of  surrounding 
wranglers,  riders  and  helpers,  the  escaping  one  dashes 
madly  through,  knocking  over  a  helper,  thereby  setting 
free  another  horse.  Here,  a  tenacious  little  brute 
swings  helper  and  rider  into  the  heels  of  one  of  his 
companions.  There  rider  and  helper  fall  in  a  grim 
tussle  with  their  horse,  and  for  a  moment  it  is  hard  to 
distinguish  which  is  which,  in  the  pyrotechnics  of 
kicking,  struggling  legs,  but  one  of  the  wranglers 
catches  the  regulation  chunk  of  ear  in  his  mouth  and 
the  animal  is  concjuered. 

There  a  roped  animal  madly  describes  a  circle,  trip- 
ping and  catching  men  and  saddles  with  the  rope,  but 
no  phase  is  too  serious  for  the  crowd  to  lose  its  humor. 

222 


THE  ROUND-UP 

As  one  cowpuncher  takes  a  spill  and  reveals  a  bald 
head,  a  voice  yells  out  above  the  hullabaloo : 

"Look  out  you  don't  burn  the  top  of  your  face 
there,  Bill." 

The  crowd  roars  a  short  laugh  of  approval.  So 
they  plunge,  rear,  bite,  squeal,  kick  and  strike,  roll 
and  crowd,  but  it  is  a  marvel  how  in  the  midst  of  this 
mass  of  untamed  horses  and  agile,  strong  men  of 
iron  nerve,  any  escape  this  melee  of  teeth  and 
hoofs.  Somehow  they  do,  save  for  a  few  minor 
injuries. 

But  no !  something's  happened — a  mounted  wrangler 
has  been  yanked  over  sidewise — horse  and  all — a  ter- 
rific crushing  fall,  by  the  powerful  wild  thing  he's 
roped.  See — a  half  dozen  cowboys  spring  to  his  aid ; 
they  know  horses  and  men  too  well  not  to  know  some- 
thing serious  has  happened.  The  limp  figure,  in  its 
black-spotted  Angora  chapps,  is  gently  placed  on  a 
stretcher — and  they  carry  him  to  the  first  aid  tent. 
But  it  is  too  late ;  a  big  fellow  draws  his  sleeve  across 
his  eyes. — It's  little  old  Winnamucca  Jack — he's  ridden 
into  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds. 

The  last  horse  is  saddled,  the  signal  is  given  to 
mount.  With  only  a  halter  rope  for  a  rein  they  at- 
tempt to  ride  and  guide  their  horses  around  the  track. 
Each  man  mounts  his  steed — or  tries  to — and  in  this 
hell-let-loose  cyclone  of  centaurs,  each  endeavors  first 
to  ride  and  then  to  guide  his  wild-crazy,  bucking 
animal  around  the  track  to  the  corrals. 

Such  a  scene  may  indeed  warrant  the  expression  of 
one  visiting  onlooker  who  qualified  it  as  a  "god- 
snapped  movey." 

Blindfolded,  with  pent-up  ferocity,  the  untamed 
outlaws  feel  for  the  first  time,  the  man-things  astride 

223 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

their  backs.     The  gunny  sack  bhndfolds  are  jerked 
from  the  animals'  eyes. 

"Let  'er  buck !"  Twenty  horses  are  leaving  undone 
no  twist,  turn,  or  jump  to  shake  their  riders.  It's 
saddles  to  cinch-holes  that  a  man,  unless  he  is  of  the 
champion  breed,  "hits  the  dust"  about  the  time  he 
starts  out. 

Not  a  rail  of  the  fence  in  front  of  the  grandstand 
is  left.  Crash!  Smash!  it  is  ripped  out  in  sections. 
One  horse,  not  content  with  this,  takes  wire  fence, 
post,  and  all,  and  lands  in  the  near-by  bleachers. 
Others  are  fast  smashing  into  kindling  wood  distant 
portions  of  the  arena  fence,  some  bucking,  others 
running  away. 

The  hundred-thousand-eyed  throng  sees  them  from 
every  angle.  For  three  whole  days  the  vast  audience 
has  breathed  their  thoughts  and  exclamations  with  one 
accord.  Now  for  a  full  twenty  minutes  this  vast  mass 
of  humanity  has  stood  physically  and  mentally  on  tiptoe 
before  this  stupendous  climax,  and  is  now  swept  by 
the  swift  wind  of  a  human  passion,  taut  as  steel,  biting 
as  a  knife.  At  last  Nature  breaks,  and,  lets  loose 
and  the  big  arena  literally  vibrates  with  a  cloudburst 
of  pent-up  energy.  It  eventually  subsides,  the  crowd 
for  a  space  stands  spellbound  where  it  had  been  stand- 
ing for  the  last  half  hour. 

As  the  dust  settles,  some  still  linger  to  drink  in  the 
peaceful  scene  as  the  last  horseman  leaves  the  empty 
arena.  September  saffron  silhouettes  the  rolling  hills 
of  eastern  Oregon,  night  is  silver  dimming  the  still- 
ness of  things,  the  great  red  lantern  of  the  lowering 
sun  sheds  its  orange-red  on  the  silent  oval,  the  range 
cries  die  away,  and  on  your  memory,  a  red-letter  day 
is  painted. 

224 


THE  ROUND-UP 

The  Round-Up  means  more  than  a  great,  hazardous, 
thrilling  spectacle.  Old  men — yes,  and  old  women — 
looked  out  through  a  mist  of  years  and  read  between 
the  lines  of  this  page,  torn  from  a  chapter  of  the  Old 
West,  the  struggles  of  a  life  which  formed  an  im- 
portant part  in  the  making  of  our  Nation.  By  the 
stranger  and  the  young  too,  the  story  is  read,  more 
vividly  than  any  brush  can  paint  or  pen  describe.  For 
three  days  they  had  "let  'er  buck."  For  three  days 
Pendleton  had  lived  in  the  full  spirit  of  the  open,  brave 
humor  -  loving,  dauntless,  empire  -  winning,  nation- 
holding,  riding,  fighting  generation  of  the  clean  men 
and  women  of  the  Great  West. 

I  stood  beside  a  silent  figure  on  a  silent  horse :  "Old 
Hank"  Caplinger  looked  wistfully  toward  the  night- 
dimmed  skyline.  Perhaps  a  phantom  of  the  days  gone 
by  blurred  the  scene  for  the  old  scout,  and  he  saw  the 
old  range  just  before  the  night  herder  sings  to  his 
herd,  and  perhaps  he  saw 

Ten  thousand  cattle  straying, 

As  the  rangers  sang  of  old, 
The  warm  chinook's  delaying, 

The  aspen  shakes  with  cold, 
Ten  thousand  herds  are  passing, 

So  pass  the  golden  years. 
Behind  us  clouds  are  massing, 

Like  the  last  of  the  old  frontiers. 

A  little  distance  away,  under  the  hush  of  blue  night 
which  pervades  everything,  the  camp-fires  of  the  Uma- 
tillas  glow  red  among  their  lodges,  within  which  dimly 
silhouette  the  shadow  forms  of  the  red-skinned  inhabi- 
tants. They,  too,  have  lived  again  in  the  open  the 
marvelous,  color-reeking  carnival  of  their  race.    Their 

"  225 


LET  'ER  BUCK 

tepee  smokes  of  sage-brush  and  greasewood  burn  an 
Incense  to  the  god  of  the  range  and  freedom;  then 
their  fires  dim,  the  Cottonwood's  soft,  feathery  masses 
stencil  darkly  against  the  silver-oxide  of  night.  Crawl- 
ing slowly  above  them,  the  crescent  of  the  new  moon 
shadows  its  pale  calm  on  the  stillness  of  things. 

It  is  all  a  chapter  taken  out  of  the  history  of  the 
old  West — a  chapter  which  every  American  with  red 
blood  in  his  veins  should  read  in  the  real  before  it 
passes  by  and,  like  the  old  West,  forever  disappears 
on  the  horizon  of  time. 

But  to  understand,  one  must  look  with  one's  own 
eyes  on  these  things.  Then  you  will  feel  the  stir  and 
the  thrill  of  life  of  these  golden  lands  of  hopes  and 
achievements,  where  man  extends  a  generous  and 
hospitable  welcome  to  those  who  cross  his  trails ;  it  is 
a  spectacle  which  makes  you  go  away  with  a  bigger, 
finer  feeling  toward  life,  and  a  genuine  respect  and 
appreciation  for  the  quiet,  modest  manhood  and 
womanhood  who  have  "taken  chances,"  have  risked 
limb  and  even  life  at  times  in  their  sports  of  daring 
and  skill,  that  you  may  see  how  their  fathers  once 
struggled  in  earnest  against  unequal  odds  in  order  to 
attain  the  Winning  of  the  West. 


22(^ 


THE  BUCKERS'  OWN  TABLE 

GIVING  A  COMPARATIVE  RECORD  OF  THE   SUCCESS  OR  FAILURE  OF  SOME  OF 
THE  LEADING   ROUND-UP    BUCKERS   OVER   A    PERIOD  OF   FOUR    YEARS 


Whistling  Annie 


Hot  Foot 


Smithy 


Long  Tom 


LiGHTFOOT 


Year 

Rider 

Result 

Rides 

1913 

Jack  Joyce 

Thrown 

Jay  Miller 

Thrown 

Sam  Brownell 

Rode 

1914 

Dan  Thompson 

Disqu. 

Henry  Webb 

Rode 

1915 

W.  H.  Chandler 

Disqu. 

3 

Dave  White 

Thrown 

John  Muir 

Pulled 

1916 

Ed.  McCarty 

Rode 

G.  Ghangrow 

Thrown 

Ben  Dobbins 

Thrown 

1913 

Fred  Heide 

Thrown' 

Pete  Wilson 

Thrown 

W.  W.  Matthews 

Thrown 

C.  C.  Couch 

Rode 

1 

1914 

L.  Mosbey 

Thrown 

> 

3 

H.  Wilcox 

Disqu. 

J.  H.  Strickland 

Rode 

1915 

R.  S.  Hall 

Rode 

1913 

Andrew  Jack 

Rode 

1914 

Silver  Harr 

Thrown 

Tex  White 

Thrown 

1915 

A.  Skeels 

Rode 

Yakima  Cannutt 

Rode 

1916 

Jas.  Shuster 

Thrown 

1913 

Tex  Daniels 

Pulled 

Ed.  McGilvray 

Thrown 

A.  E.  McCormack 

Rode 

1914 

Red  Parker 

Rode 

1915 

Ira  de  Mille 

Rode 

5 

Earl  Simpson 

Thrown 

Lee  Caldwell 

Rode 

1916 

Bob  Beebe 

Thrown 

Rufus  RoUen 

Rode 

1913 

Ed.  McCarty 

Rode 

Harry  Brennan 

Pulled 

Bob  Cavin 

Rode 

1914 

Paul  Hansen 

Thrown 

N.  McKay 

Pulled 

•     6 

John  Judd 
Johnson  Barnhart 

Rode 

1915 

Rode 

1916 

a^l:  Sundown 
.  iTverett  Wilson 

Rode 
Pulled 

Earl  Manderville 

Rode 

Throws 


228 


Year 


Rider 


Result     Rides      Throw 


1913 

W.  S.  MacHafiFey 

Rode 

1914 

C.  Plant 

B.  GotUef 

C.  McKinley 

Thrown 
Thrown 
Thrown 

Casey  Jones 

1915 

Ed.  McCarty 
Dell  Blancett 

Rode 
Rode 

5 

1916 

Jack  Sundown 
Clay  Porter 

Rode 
Rode 

1913 

W.  E.  Powell 
Earl  Smith 
H.  S.  McCrea 

Disqu. 

Pulled 
Rode 

Butter  Creek 

1914 

Art  Acord 

Rode 

4 

1915 

Cliff  Gerard 
Jim  Massey 

Thrown 
Rode 

1916 

Roy  Jones 

Rode 

1915 

Henry  Warren 

Pulled    1 

Ed.  McCarty 

Rode            - 

Old  Colonial 

1916 

Yakima  Cannutt 

Rode 

L 

John  Maggert 

Thrown, 

1913 

Harv  McCrea 
Henry  Webb 
Lee  Caldwell 

Disqu.    " 

Rode 

Rode 

1915 

Bill  Cover 

Disqu. 

■    5 

Wiggles 

J.  B.  Woodall 

Rode 

1916 

Simon  Jack 
M.  Thompson 

Rode 
Thrown 

■ 

Jack  Sundown 

Rode 

1915 

Fred  Heide 
R.  S.  Hall 

Rode 
Rode 

Angel 

1916 

Rufus  Rollen 
D.  Henderson 
Tack  Sundown 

Rode 

Thrown 

Rode 

4 

f  1913 

G.  E.  Attebury 

Rode      ' 

M'Kay 

Bill  Gerking 

Rode      f     2 

I  1916 

Joe  Hayes 

Thrown 

(  1913 

Claud  Franklin 

Pulled    1 

Crooked  River 

Henry  Webb 

Rode           r 

I  1914 

E.  A.  Callison 

Disqu.    ) 

1913 

Ben  Corbett 

Rode 

Hoot  Gibson 

Thrown 

Jkck  llawu 

Rode 

.. 

Mrs.  Wiggs 

1914 

Jack  Fretz 

Rode 

Dell  Blancett 

Rode 

Allen  Holt 

Rode 

.  1916 

Frank  Smith 

Rode 

229 


THE  RODE  AND  THROWN  TABLE 

BEING  A  NUMERICAL  RECORD  OF  THE  ENTRIES,  WITHDRAWALS  (PULL-OUTS), 
RIDES,  THROWS,  AND  DISQUALIFICATIONS  OF  THE  ROUND-UP  BUCKAROO 
CONTESTANTS   OVER  A    PERIOD   OF   EIGHT   YEARS. 


September  ii  September  12,  Friday 


September  13,  Saturday 


Thursday  p.m.       Morning  Afternoon  Afternoon  Afternoon 

Elimination    Elimination       Elimination      Semi-Finals         Grand  Finals 
Contests  Contests 


Entries 

Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Horse  Fell 
Rode 


Not  available 


40 

14 

S 


I  C.  H. 


I  P.  L. 


Entries 
Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 


September  24 


I  P.  L. 
S 


IQ14 
September  25 


39 
16 

3  S.  S. 

4  P.  L. 
10 


I  P.  L. 


September  36 


Entries 
Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 


September  23 

IS 
3 

4 


191S 

September  24 

18 

Not  available  i 


4 
2  P. 


September  25 


3 

I  P.  L. 


Entries 
Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 


September  21 
16 


30 
7 
8 


1916 

September  23 
16 
3 
3 
2  P.  L. 


14 


September  23 


Entries 
Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 


September  20 

17 
4 
4 


SO 

s 


I9I7 

September  21 

I 


o 

IS 


17 


o 
16 


September  33 


Entries 
Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 


September  19 
23 


1918 

September  20 
26 


Not  available 


Septembet  3i 


16 


230 


September  i 

8 

Sept 

ember  19 

September  20 

Thursday,  p.M 

Elimination 

Contests 

Morning 

Elimination 

Contests 

Afternoon 
Elimination 

Afternoon 
Semi-Finals 

Afternoon 
Grand  Finals 

Entries 
Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Horse  Fell 
Rode 

21 

Ip.l. 

8 

38 

IS 

6 

2 

I 

14 

33 

IS 

4 

0 

8 

IQ20 

IS 
4 
3 
0 

5 

3 

September  2 

•3 

Sept 

ember  24 

Septerr 

iber  23 

Entries 
Pulled  Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Horse  Fell 
Rode 

II 

2 
2 
I 
6 

12 

4 
2 

2 
I 
3 

13 
I 
4 
0 

8 

13 
0 
3 
0 

10 

4 

Pulled  out  means  withdrew. 
C.  H.  indicates  changed  hand. 


P.  L.  indicates  pulled  leather. 
S.  S.  saddle  slipped. 


On  the  afternoons  of  the  first  and  second  days  (Thursday  and 
Friday)  of  the  Round-Up  the  riders  contest  for  places  in  the  semi- 
finals. A  certain  number  of  buckers  are  ridden  and  a  certain  num- 
ber of  buckaroos  are  eliminated.  Because  of  the  great  number  of 
contestants,  sometimes  numbering  over  two  hundred,  it  is  necessary 
to  hold  an  elimination  contest  on  Friday  morning  as  well.  A  fair 
number  of  the  entrants  pull  out  which  indicates  the  number  of  star 
buckers  put  on  at  the  Round-Up.  Only  sixteen  riders  having  the 
highest  rating  come  through  these  elimination  contests.  They  are 
selected  for  the  semi-finals  which  are  the  first  bucking  contests 
held  on  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  (Saturday)  of  the  Round-Up. 

From  the  sixteen  contestants  in  the  semi-finals  four  star  riders 
are  chosen.  Three  only  are  selected  to  com])ete  in  the  grand  finals 
which  follow  the  semi-finals.  The  fourth  man  is  held  in  reserve  to  be 
put  in  to  compete  for  third  place  in  case  any  one  of  the  first  three 
chosen  are  thrown. 

As  yet, — and  this  is  a  remarkable  tribute  to  the  jugdment  of  the 
judges — the  fourth  man  has  never  been  used,  as  a  grand  final  rider 
has  never  been  thrown  in  the  entire  history  of  the  Round-Up,  though 
many  failed  to  scratch  their  mounts. 

These  three  riders  then  draw  from  a  hat  the  names  of  the  horses 
they  are  to  ride,  contesting  respectively  for  the  first,  second  and  third 
bucking  horse  championships  of  the  world. 

231 


THE  BUCKING-TIME  TABLE 

showing  the  length  of  time  the  buckaroo  riders  stayed  in  the 

saddle  during  the  elimination  contests,  the  semi-finals  and 

finals  in  the  bucking  horse  contests  at  the  i917  round-up 

Elimination  Contest 

Friday  a.m.,  September  21,  1917 


Entry 

Time  in 

No. 

Rider 

Horse 

Result 

Seconds 

75 

S.  D.  Sloan 

Bear  Cat 

Refused  ride 

62 

Isaac  Williams 

Mexicana 

Rode 

15 

154 

Jake  Luke 

Jack  Sundown 

54 

Bob  Hall 

Aragon 

Rode 

2lf 

146 

Fred  Harding 

Crooked  River 

Rode 

l8f 

15 

Silver  Han- 

Okanogan 

Thrown 

isi 

45 

Lee  Mathis 

Oregon  Steamboat 

153 

Isaac  Anthony 

Poncho  Villa 

Rode 

18 

133 

Dan  Thompson 

Weiser 

160 

Bert  Gatliff 

Windmill 

136 

L.  R.  Kuydendall 

Snake 

Rode 

19 

35 

Pete  Wilson 

Shelall 

Rode 

30 

38 

Fred  Nicholas 

Buckskin  B. 

Rode 

I3f 

143 

Paul  Venable 

Kaiser 

Thrown 

15 

138 

Francis  Narciss 

Brown  Jugg 

Rode 

Hi 

82 

Dave  White 

Tango 

155 

Mack  Guant 

Izee 

74 

Scoop  Martin 

Hot  Lake 

Rode 

I6| 

76 

H.  C.  Nieter 

Powder  River 

Rode 

15 

28 

Harold  Ahalt 

Hesitation 

Rode 

18 

113 

W.  Whitmore 

Spanish  Molly 

Rode 

25 

34 

John  Muir 

Gipsy 

Rode 

I6f 

ID 

Rich  Shockley 

Buggs 

Rode 

21 

51 

Tom  Baize 

Introduction 

102 

Wm.  Brown 

Butter  Creek 

Rode 

II 

2 

Bill  Baker 

King  Spain 

Rode 

15-1 

40 

Andre  Jack 

John  Icewater 

Rode 

19 

97 

B.  H.  Murray 

Bill  Buck 

96 

Jim  Lewis 

Hot  Foot 

232 


Entry 

Time  in 

No. 

Rider 

Horse 

Result 

Seconds 

80 

C.  Manderville 

Spit  Fire 

159 

Lee  Monah 

North  Powder 

Rode 

14 

126 

Ora  de  Mille 

Sad  Sam 

Rode 

22 

135 

Geo.  French 

Squaw  Creek 

7 

Jim  Lynch 

High  Tower 

Fell 

22 

39 

P.  Scoggins 

Dick  Rawlins 

Rode 

I9i 

115 

P.  Pierce 

Scar  Legs 

lOI 

D.  Heyler 

Black  Diamond 

Rode 

7l 

122 

G.  Fletcher 

Nutcracker 

Rode 

I5f 

157 

P.  Bymer 

Hellfirejack 

Rode 

I2f 

53 

Ed.  McGilvray 

D.  Robbin 

Rode 

m 

46 

E.  Bouchard 

Lookout 

Thrown 

9 

20 

B.  Ewing 

Sundance 

Rode— Pulled 

17! 

104 

J.  Judd 

P.  J.  Nutt 

Rode 

155 

26 

S.  Luton 

Bango 

Rode 

22 

120 

M.  Thompson 

Wardalopa 

Thrown 

7 

86 

P.  Shippentower 

Dimple 

Rode 

15! 

41 

W.  Cain 

G.  Minthorn 

Rode 

i6i 

13 

E.  Newquist 

Sunnybrook 

Rode 

i5i 

32 

T.  Grimes 

Carrie  Nation 

18 

B.  Anderson 

Calgary 

Rode 

15 

158 

Dave  Myers 

Monkey  Wrench 

Thrown 

5 

145 

Narcise  McKay 

Lightfoot 

Rode 

I3f 

79 

A.  Spadden 

Bill  McMurray 

Rode 

14I 

27 

Wilkins  Williams 

Corbett 

Rode 

28 

73 

Clarence  Plant 

Wiggles 

Rode 

14 

81 

Kenneth  Barrett 

Cyclone 

Rode 

l8f 

127 

Dock  Osbom 

Smithy 

Rode 

19 

161 

Earl  McCullough 

99 

Ed.  McCarty 

Culdesac 

Rode 

17 

156 

Dan  Condon 

Grave  Digger 

Rode 

15 

17 

Bill  Ridings 

HeadHght 

Thrown 

9 

137 

John  Maggert 

Long  Creek 

Rode 

15I 

8 

Yakima  Cannutt 

McKay 

Rode 

8 

151 

John  Spain 

Whistling  Annie 

Rode 

17^ 

105 

Tom  Douglas 

Mrs.  Wiggs 

Rode 

i6| 

64 

Dave  White 

Tom  Stevens 

Rode 

i8i 

60 

.'ay  Talbot 

Fire  Alarm 

Rode 

14 1 

114 

Bob  Bunke 

Angel 

Rode 

26^ 

70 

Ben  Oakes 

Old  Colonial 

Rode 

23^ 

233 


SEMI-FINALS 
September  22,  1917 


Entry 

Time  in 

No. 

Rider 

Horse 

Result 

Seconds 

104 

John  Judd 

Wiggles 

Rode 

i8| 

53 

Ed.  McGilvray 

Okanogan 

Thrown 

4 

2 

Bill  Baker 

Jackson  Sundown 

Rode 

12 

99 

Ed.  McCarty 

Sundance 

Rode 

15 

85 

Paul  Hastings 

Bear  Cat 

Rode 

13 

133 

Dan  Thompson 

Smithy 

Rode 

i4i 

114 

Robert  Burke 

Lightfoot 

Rode 

10 

64 

Dave  White 

Oregon  Steamboat 

Rode 

I7I 

8 

Yakima  Cannutt 

Corbett 

Rode 

16 

no 

Leonard  Stroud 

Whistling  Annie 

Rode 

I5I 

54 

Bob  Hall 

Monkey  Wrench 

Rode 

23 

35 

Pete  Wilson 

Speedball 

Rode 

13 

146 

Fred  Harding 

Casey  Jones 

Rode 

12 

12 

Tex  Smith 

Bango 

Rode 

I5I 

39 

Paul  Scoggins 

Aragon 

Rode 

15, 

34 

John  Muir 

Wardalopa 

Rode 

i5i 

34 

John  Muir 

Tom  Stevens 
FINALS 

Rode 

8 

Yakima  Cannutt 

Culdesac 

Rode 

Hi 

64 

Dave  White 

P.  J.  Nutt 

Rode 

14 

54 

Bob  Hall 

Angel 

Rode 

i7i 

234 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

For  terms  relating  to  "harness"  see  under  "bit  and 
bridle"  and  "saddle" ;  to  riding  under  "bucking-horse 
riding" ;  to  kinds  of  buckers  under  "bucking"  ;  to  any 
kind  of  horse  under  "horse";  to  any  kind  of  range 
cattle  under  "steer" ;  to  saddling  and  "taking-up" 
horses  under  "wrangling." 

BAD  LANDS — alkali,  clayey  or  desert  land,  poor  or  uncultivable. 

BAD  MAN— outlaw. 

BAND — a  very  small  herd  of  horses,  cattle,  sheep  or  men  on  the 

range. 
BEEF  CRITTER— a  cattle  old  and  heavy  enough  to  be  sold  for  beef. 
BIT  AND  BRIDLE 

Bit — comprises  mouthpiece,  bit  cheeks  and  chains. 
Bridle — comprises  bridle  cheeks  or  side  leathers;  brow  band  over 
eyes;  throat  latch,  going  around  neck  under  ears  and  curb  strap 
under  jaw,  all  of  which  comprise  the  headstall  which,  with 
reins  included,  is  considered  a  bridle. 
Halter — a  simplified  headstall  but  usually  of  heavier  leather  with- 
out a  brow  band,  used  for  tethering  or  leading,  for  which 
purpose  a  halter  rope  is  attached. 
Hackamore — comprises  a  bosal  or  rawhide  loop  noose  over  horse's 
nose  with  a  light  strap  attached  to  each  side  and  going  over  the 
head.     A  small  light  5-16"  rope  to  give  strength  is  attached  to 
the  knot,  under-chin  end  of  the  bosal  by  special  knots  called 
"theodore"  knots.     From  this  junction  this  rope  extends  be- 
yond the  theodore  knots  and  is  used  as  a  leading  rope. 
Hackamore  Rope — is  a  rope  by  skillful  looping  of  which  a  hacka- 
more form  of  headplate  is  improvised. 
BREAK  RANGE— running  ofT  the  range. 

235 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

BREAKING — conquering  and  taming  and  training  a  horse  by  force 

and  fight. 
BOYS — cowboys  or  hands  on  a  rauch. 
BRONCHO  BUSTER — a  cowboy  who  rides   and  breaks  wild  or 

unbroken  horses. 
BUCKAROO — or  a  broncho-buster — a  cowboy  who  can  ride  and 
then  some.     AppHed  generally  to  the  riders  who  take  part  in 
the  Round-Up. 
BUCKER— see  "horses." 
BUCKING — gyrations  of  a  horse  to  unseat  a  rider. 

Bucking  Straight  Away — bucking  that  consists  of  long  jumps 
straight  ahead  without  twisting,  whirling  or  rearing.  Usually 
not  difficult  for  a  buckaroo  to  ride. 
Sunfishing — a  movement  which  some  bucking  horses  have,  con- 
sisting particularly  of  a  posterior  twist,  alternately  left  and  right, 
as  the  animal  bucks,  so  that  the  horse's  body,  when  it  rises  in 
the  air  is  in  the  form  of  an  arc.  A  sunfisher  is  generally  a  very 
difficult  animal  to  ride. 
High  Roller  or  High  Poler — a  horse  that  leaps  high  into  the  air 

when  bucking. 
BUCKING-HORSE   RIDING    OR   ROUGH-RIDING— riding  un- 
tamed horses  that  buck. 
Riding  Slick — consists  in  riding  with  the  usual  cowboy  equip- 
ment, i.e.,  saddle,  chaps,  and  spurs  and  without  aid  of  hobbled 
stirrups,  locked  spurs  or  bucking  rolls. 
Slick  Heels — riding  without  spurs. 

Locked  Spxirs — spurs  in  which  rowels  have  been  fastened  so  they 

will  not  move.     When  these  spurs  are  held  firmly  in  the  cinch 

it  is  impossible  for  a  horse  to  unseat  its  rider.     They  are  also 

barred. 

Throwing  the  Steel — synonymous  with  raking  and   scratching. 

Using  the  spurs. 
Scratching — the  act  of  a  buckaroo  while  riding  a  bucking  horse  in 
using  his  spurs  to  make  the  animal   buck   its   hardest.     In 
scratching,  the  buckaroo  must  necessarily  allow  the  legs  to  be 
free  and  thus  take  more  chances.     If  a  broncho-buster  scratches 
a  bad  horse,  he  is  generally  making  a  good  ride. 
Raking — synonymous  with  scratching.     Generally  applies  when 
rider  gives  his  legs  a  free  sweep,  rolling  the  rowels  of  his  spurs 
along  the  horse's  side  from  shoulder  to   rump.     Sometimes 
called  scratching  fore  and  aft.     One  of  the  highest  accomplish- 
ments coveted  by  the  broncho-buster. 
236 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

Riding  Straight  Up — the  rider  of  a  bucking  horse  sitting  erect  in 
his  saddle,  one  hand  holding  the  halter  rope  and  the  other  high 
in  the  air  "fanning"  with  hat. 
Close  Seat— a  seat  in  the  saddle  which  is  steady  and  firm.     An 

important  consideration  in  the  eyes  of  the  judges. 

Riding  Safe — sitting  tight  in  the  saddle,  the  legs  tightly  gripping 

the  horse's  sides  and  the  spurs  generally  set  firmly  in  the  cinch. 

Riding  Sloppy — sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle,  allowing  body  to 

wave  and  flop  about  in  response  to  the  gyrations  of  the  animal. 

It  is  sometimes  called  "grandstand"  riding  but  is  not  considered 

good  form  in  a  contest. 

Seeing  Daylight — a  term  applied   when  daylight  can  be  seen 

between  the  rider  and  the  seat  of  his  saddle. 
Pulling  Leather — holding  on  to  any  part  of  the  saddle,  usually  the 
horn  to  steady  oneself.     A  rider  who  pulls  leather  is  in  dis 
grace  and  is  disqualified  as  surely  as  is  one  who  is  thrown.     Most 
cowboys  will  allow  themselves  to  be  thrown  before  they  will 
pull  leather. 
Choking  the  Biscuit — nearly  synonymous  with  "pulling  leather." 
Sometimes  called  "choking  the  horn."     Consists  in  catching 
hold  of  the  horn  of  the  saddle  in  order  to  keep  from  being  thrown. 
Biting  the  Dust — cowboy  term  for  being  thrown  from  a  bucking 
horse  and  usually  follows  after  "choking  the  biscuit."     It  also 
often  happens  to  many  hungry  for  adventure  on  the  hurricane 
deck  of  a  bucking  bronc. 
BUNCH — applied  to  a  small  herd  of  horses  or  cattle  or  group  of  men. 
BUNCHGRASSERS — range  horses  living  on  bunchgrass. 
CATTLE — a  general  term  sometimes  used  for  both  bovines  and 
equines;  in  lieu  of  the  singular  case  the  same  word  can  be  used. 
CATTLE  RUSTLER— cattle  thief. 

CATTALOE— ^a  hybrid  offspring  of  a  buffalo  and  a  cattle. 
CAVY — a  band  of  saddle  horses  used  on  a  round-up. 
CHUCK  WAGON — cook  wagon  which  accompanies  an  outfit  of 

cowboys  or  others  working  on  the  range. 
COWBOY  or  VAQUERO  (Sp.)— cowhand;  ranch-hand,  one  of  that 
adventurous  class  of  herders  and  drovers  of  the  plains  and  ranges 
of  the  western  United  vStates  who  does  his  work  on  horseback. 
He  is  famed  for  his  hardiness,  recklessness  and  daring. 
CRITTER— any  man  or  beast. 

CUT  OUT — to  work  out  and  separate  animals  from  the  herd. 
FORTY  FIVE — a  .45  caliber  revolver,  usually  a  Colts  or  Smith  and 
Wesson. 

237 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

GENTLING — any    gentle    method    of    taming    an    unbroken    or 

untrained  horse. 
GRISETTE— ask  the  A.  E.  F. 
GYPPING — fooling  or  deceiving. 

HIGHWAY  ROUND— the  natural  way  of  living  and  dying. 
HITCHED — a  pack,  a  horse  or  anything  tied  up  with  a  rope. 
HI-YU-SKOOKUM — Indian  jargon  used  by  Cayuse  and  Nez  Perce 

tribes  meaning  "very  good." 
HOBBLES — a  short  rope  or  any  arrangement  used  for  tying  the  fore 

fetlocks  of  a  horse  near  together  to  prevent  straying. 
HONDA — the  mettle  piece  inside  the  "eye"  splice  of  a  lariat  through 

which  the  noose  of  the  rope  travels. 
HORSE  RUSTLER— horse  thief. 
HORSES — often  pronounced  "hoss"  or  "hawse." 

Broncho  or  Bronch  (K  or  without  h) — a  Spanish  word  applied  to 

the  small  native  Mexican  horse  meaning  rough  and  wild,  now 

applied  to  any  untamed  range  horse. 
Cayuse — an  Indian  pony;  also  the  name  of  one  of  the  tribes  of 

Indians  now  located  on  the  Umatilla  reservation,  members  of 

which  participate  in  the  Round-Up. 
Cuitan — Indian  name  for  pony.     Also  called  by  cowboys  bob-tail, 

fuzz-tail  and  mustang. 
Outlaw — sometimes  called  a  "bad  one"  is  a  horse  whose  spirit  is 

unconquerable  and  which  can  never  be  broken  to  ride.     He 

always  fights  and  always  bucks.     The  animals  ridden  in  the 

Round-up  bucking  contests  are  outlaws  of  the  worst  type  to  be 

found  in  the  world. 
Slick-Ear — sometimes  used  synonymously  with  maverick  but  is 

usually  applied  to  unbranded  horses.     Comes  from  the  practice 

among  early  day  horsemen  of  slitting  the  ears  of  their  horses 

to  distinguish  them,  so  a  horse  with  smooth  or  unslit  ears  was  as 

good  as  unbranded.     A  slick-ear  can  no  more  be  claimed  than  a 

maverick. 
wad  Horse — a  native  of  the  range  that  has  never  been  ridden  or 

broken.     He  may  be  a  bucker  or  may  not.     The  animals  ridden 

in  the  wild  horse  race  each  day  have  never  had  more  than  a 

rope  on  them  since  the  day  of  their  birth.     Many  of  them  have 

seen  but  a  few  men  in  all  their  lives. 
HOBBLED  STIRRUPS— see  under  saddle. 
JERK  WATER — applied  to  a  little,  insignificant  place  where  trains 

stop  only  to  take  or  jerk  on  water  for  the  engine. 
LASHER — man  who  handles  the  lash  or  whip  on  a  stagecoach. 

238 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

LARIAT  or  LASSO — often  called  "rope"  or  "lass  rope"  made  of 
plaited  rawhide  or  hemp  with  a  small  loop  or  an  eye  splice 
shrunk  over  a  brass  honda  at  one  end  through  which  free  end  is 
run,  thus  forming  the  noose. 

MOUNTING  PONY  EXPRESS— mounting  to  the  saddle  without 
the  aid  of  the  stirrups.  Consists  in  the  rider  grabbing  the  horn 
of  the  saddle,  starting  his  horse  on  a  gallop,  bounding  two  or 
three  times  by  his  side  and  leaping  over  the  cantle  into  the 
seat.  So  called  after  the  fashion  of  pony  express  riders  in 
mounting  to  save  time. 

MUCK-A-MUCK — Cayuse  Indian  jargon  for  food. 

MUSTANG — see  under  horses. 

NESTLER — homesteader  or  squatter. 

OUTFIT — a  term  applying  to  the  equipment  of  man,  horse,  group 
of  men,  ranch  or  a  large  concern,  or  to  the  men,  horses  them- 
selves and  to  the  complement  of  a  ranch  or  concern  or  any 
group  or  part  thereof. 

'ONERY — possibly  an  abbreviation  for  honorary,  meaning  mean, 
untractable  or  worthless. 

PASSENGER — in  stagecoach  race  the  cowboys  who  ride  to  balance 
coach  to  keep  it  from  capsizing  at  the  turns. 

PARD — pardner,  partner. 

PERALTA — the  band  or  herd  of  cattle  rounded  up  for  cutting  out. 

PLUM  CULTUS — expression  meaning  as  bad  as  they  make  them, 
cussedest;  cultus  comes  from  the  Indians. 

POSSE — band  of  men  organized  to  run  down  a  man  or  a  small  band 
of  men  usually  outlaws  or  thieves. 

QUIRT — see  under  saddle. 

RAN  A  BUTCHER  SHOP  AND  GOT  HIS  CATTLE  MIXED— stole 
or  rustled  cattle  and  was  found  out. 

RED  EYE  or  NOSE  PAINT— whiskey. 

ROPE — see  "lasso." 

ROPIN' — lassooing. 

ROUGH-RIDING— riding  a  bucking  horse. 

SADDLE — western  saddle,  cowboy  saddle.     This  saddle  is  a  distinct 
type  comprising  the  following  parts: 
Tree — a  frame  of  wood  covered  with  rawhide. 
Horn — formerly  of  wood,  now  of  steel,  covered  with  rawhide. 
Fork — the  front  part  of  the  tree  and  supports  horn. 
Gullet — curved  portion  of  under  side  of  the  fork. 
Cantle — raised  back  to  the  saddle  seat. 
Side  Jockeys — leather  side  extensions  of  seat. 

239 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

Back  Jockeys — top  skirts  the  uppermost  broad  leathers  joining 

behind  cantle. 
Skirts  or  Suderderos — (old  Spanish)  broad  under  leathers  which 

go  next  to  the  horse. 
Stirrup  Leathers — broad  leathers  hung  from  the  bar  of  the  tree 

and  from  which  stirrups  hang. 
Strings — underlying  purpose  to  hold  saddle  leathers  together  but 

ends  are  tied  and  left  hanging,  which  adds  to  appearance  as  well 

as  usefulness  in  tying  on  things  carried. 
Fenders  or  Rosideros — broad  leather  sweat  protectors  swinging 

from  stirrup  leathers. 
Rigging — middle  leathers  attached  to  tree  connecting  with  and 

supporting  cinch  by  latigos  through  rigging  ring. 
Cinch  or  Cincha  (Sp.) — a  girth  of  horsehair,  leather,  cotton  or 

mohair  strapped  under  horse's  belly  to  cinch  or  hold  the  saddle 

on. 
Rubber  Cinch — an  elastic  cinch  used  in  relay  races  to  save  time  in 

changing  saddles. 
Cinch  or  Cincha  Rings — on  each  end  of  the  cincha. 
Latigos — leather  straps  hanging  from  either  side  from  the  rigging 

ring,  other  ends  run  through  cinch  rings  used  to  tighten  up 

cincha. 
Nigger  Catcher — small  slotted  leather  flap  on  one  or  both  sides  of 

saddle,  usually  at  base  of  cantle  or  fork  or  both.     Purpose  is  to 

hold  long  free  end  of  latigo  through  slit  when  cinched  up. 
Stirrup — foot  support  usually  of  wood  bound  with  iron  or  brass  or 

raw  hide.     Sometimes  all  iron  or  brass. 
Hobbled  Stirrups — stirrups  tied  to  each  other  by  a  leather  thong 

running  under  the  horse's  belly.     With  stirrups  hobbled,  it  is 

almost  the  same  as  if  the  rider  were  tied  in  the  saddle  and  there 

is  no  play  to  the  stirrups.     Hobbled  stirrups  are  not  allowed  in 

bucking  contests  except  that  some  women  riders  are  allowed  to 

use  them  if  they  choose. 
Tapideros  or  Taps — leather  stirrup  covers  which  serve  as  protec- 
tion against  cold  and  rain,  especially   through  wet  brush  or 

grass,  from  i8"  to  20"  in  length.     They  are  mostly  for  effect, 

though  some  claim  the  stirrups  ride  better.     In  summer  they 

are  discarded. 
Quirt — a  short  heavy  plaited  pliable  leather  riding  whip  used  by 

cowboys. 
Seat — the  easiest  thing  to  find  on  a  saddle  but  the  hardest  to  keep. 
SCRUB-TAIL— see  under  horses. 

240 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

SEEING  DAYLIGHT— see  under  rough-riding. 
SHORT  CUT — hanging  or  shooting  a  man  summarily. 
SLICK-EAR — see  under  "horses"  and  "steers." 
STEER — young  male  of  the  ox  kind,  usually  with  wide-spreading 
horns  especially  raised  for  beef.     In  the  western  United  States 
one  of  any  age.     Range  steers  are  dangerous  to  men  on  foot. 
Maverick — an  unbranded  bullock  or  heifer.     Said  to  be  derived 
from  the  name  of  a  Texas  cattleman  who  neglected  to  brand  his 
cattle. 
Slick-Ear — sometimes  applied  to  steers.     See  under  "horses." 
STEER  BULLDOGGING — a  practice  among  cowboys  consisting  of 
wrestling  with  a  steer  barehanded.     Usually  the  cowboy  rides 
along-side  the  racing  steer,  leans  over,  seizes  the  horns  of  the 
animal  and  swings  to  the  ground.     Then,  using  the  horns  as 
levers,  he  twists  the   head  ot  the  steer  until  its  muzzle  points 
upward,  falls  backward,  thus  throwing  the  steer  off  its  balance. 
In  exhibitions  the  cowboy  fastens  his  teeth  in  the  upper  lip  of 
the  steer,  releases  the  horns  and  holds  the  animal  prostrate  with 
his  teeth. 
Hoolihaning — another  form  of  buUdogging  consists  in  forcing  the 
horns  of  the  running  animal  suddenly  into  the  ground  and  thus 
turning  the  animal  a  complete  somersault.     However,  this  form 
is  more  dangerous  to  man  and  beast  and  is  most  cruel,  inasmuch 
as  the  animal's  horns  are  frequently  broken. 
STEER  BUSTING — popular  name  for  roping  ar  1  throwing  a  steer 

with  a  lariat  single  handed. 
STEER  ROPING — the  art  of  capturing,  busting  and  hogtieing  a 
range  steer  single-handed. 
Hogtieing — tieing  together  of  the  forefeet  and  one  hind  foot  after 
a  steer  has  been  lassoed  and  thrown.     The  process  must  be  quick 
in  order  to  prevent  the  steer  rising  after  he  has  been  thrown. 
STICK-UP-MAN — highwayman,  stage  robber. 
STRAYS — cattle  or  horses  which  have  mixed  in  with  a  herd  but  do 

not  belong  to  it. 
STUFF — applied  to  a  lot  of  cattle,  horses,  etc. 
WANTED — said  of  a  man  desired  by  the  law. 
WILD  BUNCH — any  untamed  herd  of  men,  women  or  horses. 
WRANGLING — rounding  up,  catching  and  saddling  range  horses. 
Wrangler — a  buckaroo  who  handles  the  buckers  in  the  arena  and 
assists  the  rider  in  saddling  his  horse.     This  wrangling  is  often 
the  most  difficult  and  dangerous  part  of  the  task  in  subduing  a 
wild  horse. 

241 


TIPS  TO  THE  TENDERFOOT 

Snubbing — the  act  of  tying  the  horse's  head  to  some  fixed  object, 
usually  through  the  fork  and  the  horn  of  a  saddle  on  another 
ho  rse. 

Pick  Him  Up !  or  Take  Him  Up  1  or  Cage  Him  Up ! — cries  given  by 
the  judges  to  mounted  helpers  or  "pick  up  men"  after  a  horse 
has  bucked  itself  out  and  meaning  to  overtake  and  catch  the 
animal  so  that  the  rider  can  dismount  and  the  saddle  be  removed. 
WIND-UP,  THE — of  the  year's  range  work  is  the  round-up.  This  is 
the  annual  gathering  of  cattle  from  the  ranges  for  branding  of 
young  stock  and  selection  of  beef  for  market.  In  the  old  days 
large  outfits  of  cowboys  with  their  cook  or  "chuck"  wagons 
covered  hundreds  of  miles  of  territory.  Some  of  these  round- 
ups lasted  several  weeks,  usually  winding  up  with  a  jollification 
in  which  all  the  cowboys  participated  in  their  most  popular 
pastimes  and  contests.  The  Epic  Drama  of  the  West  in  its 
cowboy  and  Indian  carnival,  epitomizes  the  whole  gamut  of 
range  life  and  sounds  the  spirit  of  its  clarion  call  in  T^he  Round- 
Up  Slogan— LET  'ER  BUCK! 


242 


Jl  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAMS   SONS 


Complete  Catalogues  sent 
on  application 


Handbook  of 

Yosemite  National 

Park 

Compiled  and  Edited  by 

Ansel  F.  Hall 

U.  S.  National  Park  Service 

Much  has  been  written  of  "  The  Valley  Incom- 
parable," and  the  1 100  square  miles  of  Scenic 
High  Sierra  which  have  been  set  aside  as  a  play- 
ground for  the  people. 

But  there  still  remains  the  task  of  satisfying 
the  thousands  who  seek  definite  information  con- 
cerning its  history,  ethnology,  botany,  geology, 
camp-  and  trail-craft,  natural  history,  and  related 
subjects.  No  one  man  can  be  master  of  all  these 
branches  of  knowledge,  so  the  editor  presents 
this  collection  of  articles  each  by  an  eminent 
authority. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Prairie  Flowers 

By 

James  B.  Hendryx 

Author  of  **  The  Texan  " 


When  Tex  Benton  said  he'd  do  a  thing,  he 
did  it,  as  readers  of  **  The  Texan  "  will  affirm. 
So  when,  after  a  year  of  drought,  he  an- 
nounced his  purpose  of  going  to  town  to  get 
thoroughly  "lickered  up,"  unsuspecting  Tim- 
ber City  was  elected  as  the  stage  for  a  most 
thorough  and  sensational  orgy. 

But  neither  Tex  nor  Timber  City  could 
foresee  the  turbulent  chain  of  events  which 
were  to  result  from  his  high,  if  indecorous, 
resolve,  here  set  down — the  wild  tale  of  an 
untamed  West. 

A  well-known  writer,  who  has  served  his 
apprenticeship  in  the  cow  country,  said  the 
other  day,  "  I  like  Hendryx's  stories — they're 
real.  His  boys  are  the  boys  I  used  to  work 
with  and  know.  His  West  is  the  West  I 
learned  to  love." 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 

Night  Horseman 

A  Tale  of  Wild  "riding  Herdsmen  and 

Outlaws,  and  their  Deeds  of 

Daring  and  Deviltry 

By 

Max  Brand 

A  well-known  English  critic  said  of  The 
Untamed — "There  are  in  it  passages  of  ex- 
traordinary power — the  whole  conception  is 
very  bold."  And  no  less  bold  nor  less 
powerful  is  its  sequel  The  Night  Horseman. 
Once  again  we  ride  in  company  with  "Whist- 
lin*  Dan,"  the  fearless,  silent,  mysterious 
chap  who  shares  the  instincts  of  wild  things, 
and  once  again  we  engage  with  him  in  his 
desperate  adventures,  hair-breadth  escapes, 
and  whirlwind  triumphs.  A  novel  thrilling 
in  its  reality,  which  will  not  be  put  down 
by  lovers  of  exciting  fiction. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


II||||III|I|I1II|!IIII|{||||II|I|I||III|II|III|I 


3  1158  00305  9689 


M? 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  160  620  9 


